MRS.   MAHONEY 

OF  THE  TENEMENT 


M  Y    II  K  A  11  T    B  E  ATS    T  II  U  E    F  ()  II    Y  ()  I'   A  X 

N  0    0  T  II  E  H  "    IT    S  A  Y  S    I'  X  I)  E  H    T  II  E     L  A  ('  E 


MRS.  MAHONEY 
OF  THE  TENEMENT 


BY 

LOUISE  MONTGOMERY 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

FLORENCE  SCOVEL  SHINN 


THE   PILGRIM   PRESS 

BOSTON    NEW  YORK    CHICAGO 


COPYRIGHT,  1912 
BY  LUTHER  H.  GARY 


THB-PI-tMPTOK-FRFSS 

[  W  •  D  •  O  ] 
NOR  WOOD-MASS-  I'  -S-A 


CONTENTS 

PAQB 

I.     THE  STRANGER 3 

II.     THE  GREEN  CARPET 21 

III.  THE  UNIVERSAL  NEED 33 

IV.  A  BIT  OP  LIFE 57 

V.     THE  WAY  STATION 75 

VI.     WHY  WE  MARRY 103 

VII.    THE  GLORY  OF  THE  MAN 115 

VIII.     CASE  NUMBER  1199    .  141 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

"My  heart  beats  true  for  you  an'  no  other,"  it 

says  under  the  lace Frontispiece 

"She  was  prettier'n  iver"     .      .      .    Facing  page  Q 
The  old  Irish  woman  and  the  young  wife  were 

hastening  down  the  street 24 

"Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart"       ....  60 

"This  is  Mrs.  McBride?"  144 


THE    STRANGER 


[1] 


"Where  is  my  home? 
Where  is  my  home? 
Waters  thro'  its  meads  are  streaming, 
Mounts  with  rustling  woods  are  teeming, 
Vales  are  bright  with  flowerets  rare, 
Oh,  earth's  Eden,  thou  art  fair! 
Land  oj  beauty,  dear  Bohemia, 
Thou  art  my  home,  my  fatherland! 
Thou  art  my  home,  my  fatherland!" 

Bohemian  National  Hymn. 


2] 


WHERE  is  my  home?  "  Through 
the  open  window  of  the 
cottage  next  to  The  Tene 
ment  came  the  plaintive  notes,  long 
drawn  out,  tender  and  wistful,  sung 
with  almost  the  slow  dignity  of  a 
church  hymn  after  the  manner  of  the 
Bohemian  peasant  woman  when  she 
sings  her  national  song.  It  is  a  sad 
melody,  echoing  in  a  free  country  the 
cry  of  an  old-world  nation  in  its  con 
flict,  and  today  it  seemed  to  fill  the 
air  with  the  longing  of  a  homesick 

[3] 


Mrs   Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

soul,  the  call  of  an  endless  desire  in 
the  pathos  of  its  repeated  query. 

"  Why  is  she  always  singing  that  out 
landish  song?"  asked  Mrs.  Mooney 
from  her  position  on  the  lowest  step. 

Mrs.  Mahoney  tapped  her  forehead 
significantly. 

"Have  ye  niver  heard?"  she  cried, 
with  her  joy  in  the  prospect  of  telling 
a  story  showing  in  every  line  of  her  old 
wrinkled  face. 

"I  raymimber  the  first  time  I  iver 
see  her,  seven  year  gone,  before  we 
come  to  The  Tiniment.  She  come 
over  here  from  Europe,  from  some 
out-of-the-way  place  they  call  Bohe 
mia,  to  marry  a  fine  strappin'  fellow  iv 
her  own  kind  with  good  wages  in  the 
Yards.  He  sint  for  her,  and  I  don't 

[41 


The  Stranger 

wonder  at  him.  She  was  pretty,  like 
a  wild  rose  in  old  Ireland,  for  all  she 
come  from  that  strange  country.  Faith, 
there's  wan  time  whin  all  girls  looks 
alike,  God  bless  us!  'Tis  whin  the 
wedding  bells  are  ringin'  in  their  ears 
and  the  heart  sings  the  tune  the  good 
Lord  started  in  the  Garden  iv  Eden  — 
bad  luck  to  all  thim  as  can't  kape  it 
singin'.  They  begin  their  housekeepin' 
in  the  front  iv  the  new  tiniment  next 
to  me  own,  an'  I  see  it  was  all  as  it  shud 
be  with  both  iv  thim. 

"By  an'  by,  a  baby  laughs  in  her 
arms  an'  she  was  prettier'n  iver.  Yes, 
now,  I  say  she  was,"  persisted  the  old 
woman  in  answer  to  the  skeptical  look 
of  Mrs.  O'Leary,  who  was  sitting  with 
two  babies  in  her  lap.  "She  was 

[5] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

prettier'n  iver.  It  was  a  boy,  as  the 
first  shud  be,  an'  the  father,  he  was 
that  proud  —  faith,  I  see  him  stoop 
his  head  to  get  in  at  the  front  door! 

"'Tis  a  happy  time  whin  the  young 
childher  are  in  ye'er  arms,  an'  ivery 
mother  knows  that,  but  it  can't  last. 
The  boy  had  to  grow  an'  another  come 
to  take  his  place,  an'  thin  another  wan 
afther  him.  'Tis  the  way  iv  the  world, 
an'  a  good  way  it  is  afther  all.  Yet  I 
see  the  eyes  iv  the  father  smile  at  the 
first-born,  an'  I  knew  where  the  heart 
iv  him  was  biding. 

"Wurra,  wurra,  'tis  a  hard  tale  to 
tell.  The  little  boy,  he  was  fond  iv 
thim  street-car  tracks,  an'  he  used  to 
pull  a  little  engine  his  father  had  bought 
for  him  an'  tied  to  a  long  string  so  the 

[6] 


SHE    W  A  S    P  II  K  T  T  I  K  R  '  NT    I  V  E  II  " 


The  Stranger 

child  cud  pull  it  on  the  sidewalks,  but 
the  boy  loved  to  run  to  thim  tracks 
unbeknown  for  the  space  iv  a  minute. 
Manny's  the  day  he  says  to  me,  '  I'll  be 
a  street-car  man  whin  I  grow  up,  an' 
ring  the  bell  loud.'  Perhaps  he  grew 
bold  playin'  in  these  city  streets  (the 
Divil  tak'  thim  for  a  playground  for  the 
childher)  an'  wan  day  the  little  engine 
got  stuck  in  the  tracks  an'  he  stooped 
down  to  pull  it  out,  like  anny  child, 
not  hearin'  the  sound  iv  the  car. 

"I  was  the  first  to  reach  him,  an' 
the  crowd  followed  close  at  the  heels. 
Iverybody  was  talkin'  at  wanst,  an' 
the  conductor  was  takin'  names  in  a 
book,  an'  the  motorman  was  cryin'  like 
a  baby  an'  swearin'  in  the  same  breath 
how  it  wasn't  his  fault.  All  at  wanst 

[7] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

some  woman  cried  out  —  '  Stand  back 
-  the  mother!'  I  see  she  was  comin', 
all  innocent-like,  an'  I  pushed  me  way 
out  to  her.  'Who's  hurt?'  says  she, 
kind  iv  anxious,  for  she'd  a  tender 
heart  for  childher.  '  I  can't  stay,'  says 
she,  'for  I  left  me  childher  alone  in  the 
back  yard.'  Faith,  me  tongue  stuck 
to  the  roof  iv  me  mouth,  an'  'twas  the 
same  with  ivery  wan  iv  us  on  the  street. 
Mebbe  it  was  the  stillness  spoke  to  her. 
Thin  she  caught  sight  iv  the  long  string 
iv  that  little  broken  engine,  an'  gave 
wan  cry.  Mother  iv  God,  may  I  niver 
hear  another  like  it!" 

The  old  woman  paused  and  wiped 
her  eyes  with  the  hem  of  her  apron. 

"The  child  was  dead?"  gasped  Mrs. 
O'Leary. 

[8] 


The  Stranger 

"Dead." 

"And  she  went  off  her  head  then?" 

"'Twas  no  other  time.  An'  ivery 
year  since  that  day  has  her  good  man 
moved,  thinkin'  mebbe  to  shake  her 
mind  a  bit  with  the  change." 

There  was  a  long  silence  on  the  steps, 
but  still  the  music  floated  through  the 
little  window,  falling  upon  the  unheed 
ing  ears  of  the  children  of  seven  nations 
playing  in  the  street. 

"How  did  she  come  by  that  piano?" 
asked  Mrs.  Mooney,  who  could  not 
bear  a  painful  stillness. 

"The  piano?"  said  Mrs.  Mahoney. 
"Oh,  that  was  left  to  her  by  a  brother 
who'd  come  over  to  kape  a  saloon. 
He  died,  poor  fellow,  an'  there  was  no 
other  kin  in  this  country.  A  blessin' 

[9] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

to  her  poor  head  it's  been,  but  they  do 
be  sayin'  he's  talked  iv  sellin'  it,  times 
are  that  hard  for  thim." 

Within  the  cottage  a  slender  young 
woman  sat  at  her  loved  instrument 
repeating  the  familiar  strain,  for  to  her 
the  song  had  no  end,  like  the  circle  of 
her  thought,  ever  coming  to  the  point 
from  which  it  started  and  beginning 
over  again.  Softly  her  long  fingers 
touched  the  loose  yellow  keys  of  the 
old  piano  that  sent  forth  at  intervals 
unexpected  vibrations  as  of  a  broken 
string.  At  such  moments  the  singer 
faltered,  and  a  slight  frown  disfigured 
her  fair,  smooth  forehead,  but  as  the 
rippling  accompaniment  caught  the 
melody,  lightly  supporting  and  moving 
it  on  to  its  mournful  ending,  she  smiled 

[10] 


The  Stranger 

a  sad,  patient  smile  and  looked  into  the 
distance  with  brooding  eyes,  the  em 
bodiment  of  that  pathetic  appeal  in 
the  national  song  of  her  own  people. 

A  long,  shrill  whistle  from  the  Yards 
aroused  her.  She  put  her  hand  to  her 
head  and  looked  about  with  a  be 
wildered  air.  Then  she  rose,  and  with 
quick  gentle  movements  set  about  pre 
paring  the  supper.  Her  husband  found 
her  a  moment  later  looking  anxiously 
along  the  pantry  shelves  and  pushing 
small  articles  to  the  right  and  left. 

"What  is  it,  Mary?"  he  asked. 

"The  meat.     I  do  not  find  it." 

"There  is  none  tonight,"  he  replied 
abruptly. 

"Oh,  you  do  not  wish  it?"  she  asked, 
smiling  at  him.  "Then  it  is  well. 

fin 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

There  is  enough  of  the  bread  and  coffee 
and  potatoes  ready." 

The  two  children  came  in  from  the 
back  yard  and  she  placed  them  at  the 
table.  They  laughed  over  the  warm 
potatoes  and  the  thick  slices  of  buttered 
bread  sprinkled  with  sugar,  and  she 
smiled  at  them.  The  husband  ate 
hurriedly  and  walked  to  the  window, 
where  he  stood  looking  dully  out  into 
the  street.  She  came  and  stood  beside 
him,  and  he  stroked  her  soft  brown 
hair. 

"I  can't  do  it,"  he  muttered.  "I 
can't  do  it." 

"You  are  troubled?"  she  asked 
softly. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "Mary,  I  must  tell 
you  something.  Try  and  understand." 

[121 


The  Stranger 


His  voice  was  harsh  and  loud  as  if 
force  and  intensity  of  tone  could  pene 
trate  an  ear  that  heard  without  com 
prehending. 

"It's  dull  in  the  Yards.  It'll  be 
dull  all  summer.  We're  on  short  time 
and  short  pay  till  things  pick  up  again 
in  the  fall.  I've  got  to  hold  the  job. 
It's  the  best  I  can  do  now.  It's  been 
hard  all  winter  to  keep  things  going. 
I've  been  thinking  we  could  sell  the 
piano.  I've  had  a  good  offer.  I'll 
buy  you  another  and  a  better  one  soon, 
Mary,  soon."  Then  as  he  saw  the 
bewildered  look  creep  into  her  face,  he 
clenched  his  fists.  "Mary,  I'll  get 
you  another  somehow,  if  I'm  damned 
for  it!" 

She  looked  at  his  face,  drew  out  a 

[13] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

handkerchief,  and  gently  wiped  the 
sweat  from  his  forehead. 

"You  are  troubled/'  she  repeated. 
"What  is  it  you  want?" 

"To  sell  the  piano,  I  tell  you.  To 
sell  —  the  piano.  There's  no  other 
way  out  of  it." 

"Do  what  you  please.  You  are 
always  good,"  she  said  in  her  soft  voice. 
"Shall  I  sing  for  you?" 

He  groaned  and  dropped  into  a  chair, 
leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
covering  his  face  with  both  of  his  large 
hands. 

"Where  is  my  home?" 

At  the  familiar  call  the  children 
climbed  down  from  their  chairs  and 
ran  to  their  mother,  watching  her  face, 
and  trying  to  repeat  the  words  as  they 

[14] 


The  Stranger 

fell  from  her  lips.  The  man  sat  with 
bowed  head,  but  the  singer  smiled  as 
the  child  may  smile,  and  only  by  this 
outward  sign  give  evidence  of  a  joyous 
mystery  within. 

There  was  a  sound  of  heavy  steps 
at  the  front  entrance,  and  the  music 
stopped.  A  burly  man  pushed  in  the 
half-open  door  without  knocking. 
Three  others  followed.  The  husband 
nodded  and  pointed  to  the  piano. 
Mary  looked  from  him  to  the  men,  but 
made  no  protest  as  he  gathered  up  the 
old  green  flannel  cover  with  its  bor 
der  of  red  roses,  and  laid  the  book  of 
Bohemian  songs  on  the  shelf  under 
the  clock. 

"Say,  I'm  sorry  for  this/'  said  one 
of  the  men,  with  a  hesitating  glance  at 

[15] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

the    wife.     "If    we    could    help    you 
out"- 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  the  hus 
band  brusquely.  "Get  out  with  it  as 
quick's  you  can." 

It  was  gone.  He  turned  awkwardly 
to  the  empty  side  of  the  room. 

Mary  glided  past  him  and  began 
pulling  at  the  oblong  table  that  held 
the  album,  the  tall  vase,  and  the  little 
front  room  ornaments  purchased  long 
ago  from  the  Italian  vender  of  images. 
He  caught  her  idea  and  together  they 
lifted  it  into  the  great  emptiness.  Then 
she  carefully  placed  her  chair  and  sat 
down,  lightly  touching  the  wooden 
table  with  the  tips  of  each  one  of  her 
long  fingers,  as  if  she  were  testing  the 
keys  to  see  what  response  they  would 

[16] 


The  Stranger 

make  to  her  appeal.  In  the  beginning 
a  troubled  look  passed  over  her  face, 
but  as  she  awoke  the  memory  of  the 
familiar  accompaniment,  the  smile  re 
turned,  and  from  her  lips  the  old  song 
leaped  forth: 

"Where  is  my  home? 
Where  is  my  home? 
Waters  thro'  its  meads  are  streaming, 
Mounts  with  rustling  woods  are  teeming, 
Vales  are  bright  with  flowerets  rare, 
Oh,  earth's  Eden,  thou  art  fair! 
Land  of  beauty,  dear  Bohemia, 
Thou  art  my  home,  my  fatherland! 
Thou  art  my  home,  my  fatherland!" 


[17] 


THE    GREEN    CARPET 


[19 


II 

THE    GREEN    CARPET 

SHE    is    yet    young/'    said    Mrs. 
Hoesing.     "It  is  best  that  you 
go  up  and  make  out  how  they're 
getting  on." 

"'Tis  worryin'  ye  all  are,  an'  that 
for  a  bit  iv  sickness  the  Lord  sinds  to 
ivery  wan  iv  us  for  a  trial  iv  endur 
ance/'  said  Mrs.  Mahoney,  "but  I'll 
be  goin'." 

The  old  woman  left  her  breakfast 
dishes  unwashed  on  the  kitchen  table 
and  hurried  around  to  the  "second  flat 
front."  On  the  landing  she  paused  a 

[21] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

moment  and  put  her  ear  to  the  keyhole. 
This  proved  unsatisfactory  and  she 
knocked  softly. 

Mrs.  Mooney  stepped  out  quickly, 
closing  the  door  behind  her  and  keeping 
her  hold  on  the  knob. 

"  An'  how  is  he  this  mornin',  dearie?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Mahoney. 

"Oh,  I've  give  up,  Mrs.  Mahoney," 
said  the  young  woman.  "  I've  give  up 
all  hope." 

"No,  no,  darlin',"  said  Mrs.  Maho 
ney,  soothingly.  "'Tis  too  soon  for 
that.  Ye'er  husband's  young  to  die, 
an'  a  strong  built  man  too.  Ye'er 
tired.  Leave  me  take  ye'er  place  for 
a  bit  while  ye  rest." 

Mrs.  Mooney  shook  her  head.  "The 
dog  howled  all  night.  You  know  what 

[22] 


The  Green  Carpet 


that  means  —  and  there's  been  knock- 
ings  on  the  wall.  He's  called!" 

Mrs.  Mahoney  was  silent  before 
these  certain  omens  of  coming  death. 

"He's  been  a  good  husband  to  you," 
she  said,  putting  both  arms  around  her 
friend,  "an'  ye'll  have  to  do  ye'er  best 
for  him.  Whin  me  Johnnie  died,  the 
boy  that  was  the  pride  and  joy  iv  me 
life,  I  had  such  a  funeral  as  made  the 
neighbors  say  to  me,  l  Missis  Mahoney, 
ye've  done  ye'er  duty  handsome,  an' 
nobody  can  say  a  word." 

"Yes,  yes,"  sobbed  the  young 
woman.  "Jim  was  a  good  man  — 
none  better  —  and  I'll  do  my  best, 
what  with  the  insurance  from  the  lodge, 
but  —  but  —  I  don't  see  how  a  body 
is  going  to  have  a  decent  funeral  in  the 

[23] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

front  room  without  a  scrap  of  carpet  on 
the  floor." 

"True  for  ye,  true  for  ye,"  admitted 
the  old  woman  slowly.  "'Tis  not  fit 
for  all  the  neighbors  to  see  —  thim 
that's  across  the  road,  an'  beyond. 
Some  wud  be  talkinV 

"I  know  it.  I  know  it.  They're 
that  mean,  and  themselves  no  better 
off  than  they  might  be,"  cried  Mrs. 
Mooney  bitterly. 

"Cud  ye  manage  now  on  small  pay 
ments?"  suggested  Mrs.  Mahoney. 

The  tearful  face  of  the  other  woman 
brightened. 

"Would  you  —  would  you  —  if  you 
was  me?" 

"To  be  sure  I  wud,"  replied  Mrs. 
Mahoney  heartily.  "We'll  go  now. 

[24] 


THE     OLD     IRISH     WOMAN     AND     T  II  E 

Y  O  U  N  G     W  I  F  E    WERE     HASTENING 

DOWN    T  II  E     S  T  It  E  10  T 


The  Green  Carpet 


Betther  done  at  wanst.  'Tis  a  Friday 
now,  an'  ye'er  sure  to  be  ready  be 
Sunday,  in  case"  -she  stopped  and 
nodded  significantly  in  the  direction  of 
the  sick  man's  room. 

A  faint  sound  came  through  the 
closed  door.  "He's  calling  me,"  said 
the  wife  hurriedly.  "You  ask  Mrs. 
Hoesing  to  step  in  while  we're  out. 
He'll  never  know  the  difference  after 
he's  had  the  medicine.  The  doctor 
give  it  for  quieting  the  pains  when  he 
calls  out  like  that." 

Mrs.  Mahoney  descended  the  stairs 
to  consult  with  Mrs.  Hoesing.  Five 
minutes  later  the  old  Irishwoman  and 
the  young  wife  were  hastening  down 
the  street,  bent  on  reaching  the  largest 
department  store  of  the  neighborhood. 

[25] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Red  is  a  good  color  for  wear," 
declared  Mrs.  Mahoney,  with  her  small 
head  bent  in  the  critical  position  of  the 
woman  who  knows. 

"You  are  quite  right,  madame," 
said  the  clerk,  bowing  to  her  as  he 
deftly  twisted  the  roll  to  display 
another  yard,  "and  always  in  good 
taste." 

"It  don't  seem  just  right  now," 
murmured  Mrs.  Mooney.  "Seems  as 
if  green  would  be  better." 

"Certainly,"  assented  the  clerk  gra 
ciously.  "Green  is  the  favorite  color 
this  year.  You  can't  do  wrong  to  buy 
green.  You  can  see  we  are  making  a 
special  price  on  this."  He  quickly 
turned  another  roll  into  the  open  space. 

Mrs.  Mahoney  took  the  green  carpet 

[261 


The  Green  Carpet 


in  both  hands  and  whipped  it  as  she 
whipped  her  towels  before  hanging 
them  on  the  line. 

"A  good  test  iv  a  carpet/'  she 
whispered  to  Mrs.  Mooney.  "  Don't 
leave  him  think  ye'er  over  anxious,  but 
'tis  a  bargain  and  best  settled  atwanst." 

The  arrangements  were  made  for  a 
cash  deposit  of  two  dollars,  to  be  fol 
lowed  by  monthly  payments  of  the 
same  amount  during  a  period  of  one 
year,  and  the  two  women  passed  out 
into  the  street. 

"What  if  the  insurance  don't  hold 
out  for  everything?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Mooney,  stopping  suddenly  to  seize 
her  companion  by  the  arm.  "I  don't 
rightly  know  how  much  Jim's  got!" 

"Ye'll  soon  be  findin'   out,"   came 

[27] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

the  reply.  "  Besides  'tis  done  now  an' 
'tis  the  only  way  ye'd  iver  get  it. 
'Tis  ye'er  duty  to  bury  him  rayspecti- 
ble." 

The  old  woman's  words  were  caught 
up  in  the  roar  of  two  passing  cars,  and 
there  was  no  further  talk  till  they 
reached  The  Tenement.  They  stopped 
a  moment  at  the  front  door  and  a  new 
fear  took  possession  of  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"Suppose  —  suppose  the  clerk  don't 
get  it  here  on  time,"  she  faltered. 
"We  didn't  tell  him  nothing." 

"Niver  fear.  He'll  do  it,  an'  if  be 
anny  chance  he  slips  up,  thin  I'll" 

Footsteps  were  heard  coming  down 
the  stairs,  and  a  tall  man  with  a  black 
hand-bag  stepped  suddenly  out  of  the 
dark  hallway. 

[28] 


The  Green  Carpet 


"Glad  to  see  you  out  in  the  air,  Mrs. 
Mooney,"  he  said  cordially.  "Get 
out  a  few  minutes  every  day  now  till 
your  husband  is  about  again." 

"Oh,  doctor,"  cried  Mrs.  Mooney 
hysterically,  "is  he  —  is  he  really  going 
to  get  well?" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  replied  the  doctor. 
"Don't  get  excited.  You've  taken 
good  care  of  him  and  the  worst  is  over. 
He'll  be  as  good  as  new  in  a  couple  of 
weeks." 


[29] 


THE     UNIVERSAL    NEED 


31] 


Ill 

THE    UNIVERSAL    NEED 

DID  I  iver  tell  ye  how  I  gave  me 
old  man  a  Valentine  party?" 
asked  Mrs.  Mahoney. 
"You  never  did,"  replied  Mrs.  Hoe- 
sing,  gravely. 

"But  you're  going  to,"  said  Mrs. 
Mooney,  reaching  for  another  lump  of 
sugar. 

"They'se  nothin'  like  tay,"  resumed 
Mrs.  Mahoney,  refilling  the  three  cups. 
"It  warms  ye  up  for  the  present  an' 
makes  ye  raymimber  the  good  times 

[33] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

past,  an'  gives  a  rosy  light  to  the  un- 
sartin'  future." 

The  other  women  were  silent.  They 
had  learned  from  experience  that  when 
a  story  was  brewing  in  the  old  woman's 
mind  she  would  need  no  urging  to  bring 
it  forth. 

"'Twas  just  such  another  day  as 
this,"  she  began,  "an'  that  made  me 
think  iv  it.  The  cold  wind  drove  the 
sleet  an'  the  snow  to  the  heart,  an' 
there  was  small  reason  to  be  joyful 
with  me  old  man  out  iv  work  since  the 
Christmas  an'  the  landlord  gettin' 
onaisy  about  the  rint,  which  is  a  way 
with  thim  landlords,  an'  me  gettin' 
sight  iv  the  bottom  iv  the  tay-can  whin 
I  wint  to  get  a  pinch  to  warm  the 
marrow  iv  me  old  bones. 


The  Universal  Need 


"An'  the  worst  iv  it  was  me  old  man 
was  fair  disheartened.  Ivery  mornin' 
he  wint  out  with  his  gray  head  droopin' 
like  an  old  ox  under  a  heavy  yoke. 
An'  he  says  to  me,  'I'm  gettin'  old 
an'  nobody  wants  me  anny  more.' 
'Go  'long  with  ye,'  says  I.  'Ye're  as 
young  an'  likely  lookin'  a  man  as  I  lay 
me  eyes  on  anny  where  on  the  street,' 
says  I,  for  ye  know,  whin  trouble  comes 
'tis  always  the  woman  must  cheer  up." 

"'Tis  so,"   assented   Mrs.   Hoesing. 

"Why  is  it?"  asked  Mrs.  Mooney. 
"Why  is  it?  and  we  what  they  call  the 
'weaker  sex,'  and  men  always  putting 
themselves  first,  and  so  full  of  the 
brag." 

"'Tis  strange,"  continued  Mrs. 
Mahoney,  "but  so  it  is,  an'  so  ivery 

[35] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

woman  finds  it  out  come  soon  or  late. 
I  see  how  things  was  goin'  whin  he 
niver  smiled  at  me  jokin',  an'  I  says  to 
meself,  'Something's  got  to  be  done!' 
Thin  be  a  sudden  inspiration  iv  the 
Saint  iv  the  Day,  I  looked  up  at  the 
Christmas  calendar  hangin'  on  me 
wall,  an'  see  it  was  the  fourteenth  day 
iv  this  same  month,  an'  good  St.  Valen 
tine's  Day  at  that.  'Sure  an'  I'll  have 
a  Valentine  party/  I  says  to  meself." 

"And  how  long  ago  was  it  a  white- 
haired  old  woman  like  you  was  courting 
the  Patron  Saint  of  Love  and  Youth?" 
interrupted  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"Why  not,  if  it  was  just  for  her 
husband?"  interposed  Mrs.  Hoesing 
so  seriously  that  Mrs.  Mahoney  broke 
into  a  delightful  chuckle. 

[361 


The  Universal  Need 


"Niver  ye  mind.  Sure  'twas  not 
the  first  Valentine  party.  I've  seen 
parties  in  me  day  an'  no  lack  iv  part 
ners  for  the  dancin'.  Wurra,  wurra, 
the  good  Saint  give  me  the  thought, 
but  where  was  the  money?  For  me 
pocket-book  was  'as  empty  as  the 
dreams  iv  youth/  as  the  poet  says." 

"You  might  have  got  credit,"  sug 
gested  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"Ye'er  partly  right  an'  not  alto 
gether  wrong.  'Tis  no  shame  to  tell 
ye  iv  the  few  times  in  me  life  whin  I 
borrowed  money  from  thim  as  wudn't 
be  missin'  it  if  I  was  to  call  for  me 
funeral  sudden  an'  lave  a  small  debt 
for  me  only  raymimbrance.  'Twas  a 
cold  day,  as  I  was  tellin'  ye,  an'  I 
bundled  me  figure  in  a  big  shawl  an' 

[37] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

with  me  head  up  as  high  as  me  bent 
shoulders  cud  carry  it,  I  wint  straight 
to  the  charity  office.  Wurra,  wurra, 
there  was  manny  a  poor  soul  shiverin' 
in  the  outer  room  that  day  an'  looking 
the  Lord  help  thim,  as  if  they'd  been 
stealin'  sheep.  But  I  want  to  tell  ye 
now,  'tis  not  the  way  to  go  for  a  small 
favor  in  the  winter.  I  walked  be  the 
shakin'  group  straight  into  the  next 
room  an'  up  to  the  head  lady  sittin' 
in  a  kitchen  chair  an'  playin'  with  a  lot 
iv  cards  with  names  on  thim.  We'd 
done  business  together  afore,  an'  she 
knew  me,  an'  I  knew  her.  She  was 
the  trim  and  tidy  sort,  for  all  the  world 
like  wan  iv  these  pictures  hangin'  in 
the  shops  in  the  spring  with  the  sign, 
'  Tailor-made,'  under  thim.  But  she'd 

[38] 


The  Universal  Need 


a  kind  heart  an'  I  asked  her  without  a 
blush  or  anny  kind  iv  excuses  to  lind 
me  the  loan  iv  three  dollars  an'  a  half." 

"You  didn't  get  it,"  said  Mrs. 
Mooney.  "They  never  give  money 
at  such  places." 

"  Not  without  you  answer  all  manner 
of  questions  you'd  sooner  die  than  tell 
them,"  explained  Mrs.  Hoesing. 

"As  I  was  tellin'  ye,"  continued  the 
old  woman,  calmly,  "we'd  done  busi 
ness  afore  an'  me  reputation  was  good 
for  returnin'  small  change.  She  looked 
at  me  an'  asked  if  it  was  really  neces 
sary  I  shud  take  the  cash,  hintin' 
perhaps  she  cud  do  some  other  way, 
but  I  turned  her  off  iv  that  quick  an' 
sudden.  'Tis  a  cold  day  whin  old 
Kathleen  Mahoney  lets  annybody  else 

[39] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

order  beans  an'  useless  charity  truck 
for  her.  'Haven't  I  always  returned 
cash  for  cash? '  I  asked  her,  holdin'  up 
me  head  an'  lookin'  her  square  in  the 
eye. 

"'Yes,  I  know  ye  have,'  says  she, 
gentle-like,  but  with  a  suspicion  iv 
mistrust  in  the  waitin'.  Ye  see,  she'd 
been  down  to  me  house  an'  I'd  invited 
her  into  the  front  room  an'  give  her  a 
cup  iv  tay  like  anny  dacent  woman,  so 
she  got  it  into  her  head  me  an'  the  old 
man  lived  pretty  well  for  folks  called 
poor.  'Ye've  always  returned  the 
money  ye've  borrowed,  but  ain't  ye 
just  a  little  bit  improvident/  says  she, 
'or  ye  wudn't  be  out  again  so  soon,' 
says  she.  Thin  I  explained  how  me  old 
man  was  out  iv  work  since  the  blessed 

[40] 


The  Universal  Need 


Christmas  Day  an'  the  money  was 
most  necessary/ for  the  universal  need,' 
says  I. 

"'True,'  says  she,  'but  ye  certainly 
spend  money  pretty  good  whin  ye  have 
it.  I  noticed  all  the  new  things  in  ye'er 
front  room,'  says  she,  'an'  that  fine 
green  carpet.'  'Mother  iv  God,'  says 
I,  interruptin'  most  impolite,  'to  think 
ye  shud  notice  wan  green  carpet  —  the 
same  I'd  bought  twinty  year  back  for 
me  grandmother's  funeral.  Besides/ 
says  I,  'what's  wan  green  carpet  in  the 
month  iv  February.  Ye  can  nayther 
ate  it  nor  wear  it!' 

"With  that  she  took  a  slight  coughin' 
spell  an'  wint  to  her  drawer  an'  drew 
out  the  three  dollars  an'  a  half.  I 
signed  the  paper  she  made  an'  left  me 

[41] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

blessin'  with  her  an'  wint  back  to  the 
room  where  the  poor  divils  sat  shiverin' 
in  a  row.  'Hold  up  ye'er  heads,  ye 
blitherin'  idiots/  I  says  to  thim.  'Hold 
up  ye'er  heads,' but  I  doubt  if  they  did." 

"The  Italian  woman  once  told  me 
the  Charities  never  help  a  body  with  a 
clean  front  room,"  said  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"That's  as  it  is,"  replied  the  old 
woman.  "Annyhow  'twas  but  a  busi 
ness  transaction  I  was  askin'.  I  had 
the  money  an'  I  stopped  at  the  drug 
store  to  look  over  thim  valentines. 
'Twas  hard  choosin'.  The  real  wans 
with  the  lace  an'  the  rosebuds  an'  the 
gold  verses  come  high.  I  lay  out  three 
-  fifty  cents,  siventy-five,  an'  wan 
dollar.  Sure  it  was  no  manner  iv  use. 
The  dollar  wan  beat,  an'  I  took  it. 

[42] 


The  Universal  Need 


At  the  end  iv  the  gold  verse  I  put  me 
secret  mark.  'Twas  a  sign  in  the 
letthers  that  passed  between  us  whin 
we  was  promised,  an'  that  was  long 
ago.  '  Will  ye  be  so  good  as  to  address 
it?'  I  asks  the  clerk,  because  I  wanted 
the  handwritin'  mysterious.  'Where 
to?'  says  he,  polite  enough.  'To  Mr. 
John  Patrick  Mahoney,'  says  I,  givin' 
the  street  number.  Thin  I  give  him 
two  cents  for  the  stamp  an'  wint  out 
an'  put  it  in  the  box.  'Twas  not  tin 
o'clock  an'  I  knew  it  wud  come  to  the 
house  afore  night." 

"A  dollar  for  a  valentine!"  mused 
Mrs.  Hoesing,  shaking  her  head. 

"To  be  sure,"  asserted  Mrs.  Maho 
ney,  unabashed.  "Whin  ye  are  doin' 
a  good  work,  ye  shudn't  spare  the  ex- 

[43] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

pense.  I  figured  there  was  enough  left 
for  the  eatin'  an'  drinkin'  for  a  small 
company,  an'  I  stopped  on  the  way 
back  to  give  out  a  few  polite  invitations 
to  the  neighbors  to  drop  in  for  the 
evenin',  not  forgettin'  to  buy  the 
pretzels  for  me  German  frinds,  an'  a 
bit  iv  stew  for  supper.  At  home  I  did 
a  small  bakin'  iv  cakes  an'  straightened 
the  house.  About  five  o'clock  the 
postman  comes  with  a  letther  for  Mr. 
John  Patrick  Mahoney,  which  same 
I  lays  aside  on  a  high  shelf.  At  six 
me  old  man  comes  in  with  his  head 
hangin'.  "Tis  no  use,'  says  he,  an' 
stops  in  his  tracks  like  a  spent  brute. 

"'Come  to  supper,'  says  I. 

"' Where  did  ye  find  a  supper?'  says 
he. 

[44] 


The  Universal   Need 


"'In  me  imagination  first/  says  I, 
'  an'  thin  it  materialized  with  meself  for 
the  medium.' 

'"Go  'long  with  ye'er  foolin'/  says 
he,  but  I  see  he  cud  eat,  an'  ye  niver 
need  lose  hope  for  anny  man  so  long's 
he  can  put  away  a  meal. 

"Thin  he  took  his  pipe  an'  leaned 
back  against  the  kitchen  wall  on  the 
two  legs  iv  the  chair,  an'  smoked  paceful 
while  I  washed  the  taycups  an'  searched 
the  corner  iv  me  brain  for  the  next 
word. 

"'Wud  ye  enjoy  a  mug  iv  beer  for 
the  evenin'?'  says  I. 

"'I  wud  that,'  says  he. 

"'Thin  go  an'  get  it/  says  I,  'not 
forgettin'  the  frinds  that  are  comin' 
for  a  party  this  night/  says  I. 

[45] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"'What!'  says  he,  an'  come  down 
hard  on  the  two  front  legs  iv  the  chair. 

"'A  few  iv  the  neighbors  signified 
their  intintion  iv  comin'  in  to  enjoy 
the  evenin'  with  us/  says  I,  'so  I 
made  the  bakin'  iv  cakes  an'  ye  must 
go  for  the  beer.' 

"'Are  ye  crazy,  woman?'  says  he, 
turnin'  his  empty  pockets  inside  out. 

"'Not  yet,'  says  I,  drawin'  a  dollar 
from  me  own  pocket. 

"'Where  did  ye  get  it?'  says  he, 
anxious  like,  for  he's  a  good  man,  is 
John  Patrick  Mahoney,  an'  none  bet- 
ther. 

"'Am  I  not  ye'er  true  an'  honorable 
wife? '  says  I,  takin'  a  line  from  a  play 
we  saw  wanst  in  a  theater. 

"'They'se    a    daceitfulness    in    all 

[46] 


The   Universal  Need 


wpmen/  says  he,  noddin'  behind  his 
pipe.  'All  the  poets  an'  the  play- 
writers  have  it  so.' 

"'I  doubt  it,'  says  I,  'but  if  'tis 
so,  'tis  betther  that  way.  The  Lord 
made  Adam  first,  but  second  thoughts 
is  best,'  says  I. 

"With  that  he  put  on  his  hat  an' 
took  the  dollar  and  wint  for  the  beer, 
for  he  is  a  good  man,  is  me  old  Patrick, 
an'  I  niver  had  anny  throuble  with  him 
since  I  promised  to  obey,  which  I 
niver  did." 

"And  how  did  he  like  the  party?" 
laughed  Mrs.  Mooney,  who  was  enjoy 
ing  the  puzzled  look  on  the  face  of  her 
German  friend. 

"Sure,"  cried  Mrs.  Mahoney,  "did 
ye  iver  know  iv  an  Irish  party  that  was 

[47] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

not  a  party?  An'  whin  ye  have  just  a 
sprinklin'  iv  Germans  to  hold  it  down 
a  bit  an'  make  a  few  pauses  in  the 
conversation,  'tis  most  harmonious. 
Afther  we'd  all  passed  the  time  iv  day, 
an'  raymimbered  the  weather  iv  last 
year,  an'  talked  iv  the  slack  times  an' 
the  cost  iv  things,  thin  I  see  it  was  the 
place  an'  the  occasion  to  introduce  a 
new  idea.  So  I  jumps  up  an'  goes  to 
the  shelf  for  another  lamp,  an'  finds 
the  letther. 

"'Sure,  an'  I  forgot  to  give  ye  the 
letther,  Pat,'  says  I,  'an'  mebbe  the 
company  will  be  excusin'  ye  if  ye  break 
into  it  now,  the  envelop  is  that  long  an' 
important  lookin','  says  I. 

"' Somebody  writin'  to  me?'  says  me 
man  with  an  innocent  surprise,  'an'  'tis 

[48] 


The   Universal   Need 


not  from  the  old  country  nayther,  as  I 
see  be  the  mark.'  An'  with  that  we  all 
looked  at  the  outside,  as  folks  mostly  do 
whin  letthers  is  oncommon. 

"'  What's  the  matter  with  openin'  it, 
Pat? '  says  wan.  '  It  may  be  an  invita 
tion  from  the  governmint  to  sweep  the 
bullyvards  be  night  for  a  modest  com- 
petince.'  'Or  a  threat  from  the  Black 
Hand  if  ye  don't  come  down  with  ye'er 
fortune,'  says  another. 

"Be  that  time  we  was  all  curious,  an' 
I  stood  a  little  wan  side  to  see  the  look 
on  his  face.  It  was  worth  it.  I  tell  ye, 
it  was  worth  it!  There  it  was  in  his 
innocent  hand.  'My  heart  beats  true 
for  you  an'  no  other,'  it  says  under  the 
lace.  Thin  the  shout  wint  up  to  the 
rafters. 

[491 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"'  Whose  ye'er  frind,  Pat?'  says  wan. 

"'Sure  an'  ye'er  a  sly  old  bird/  says 
another.  'Who'd  have  thought  it?' 

"'An'  ye  a  dacent  married  man  with 
wan  wife  an'  childher  growed  an' 
settled,  to  be  gettin'  a  fool's  thing  like 
that,'  says  Mrs.  Greifen,  she  that  was 
me  German  neighbor.  She  was  a  good 
woman  in  times  iv  sickness  an'  throuble, 
but  she  cud  niver  raise  a  laugh. 

"Be  that  time  Pat  gets  a  little  riled 
up.  'Whin  a  dacent  man  gets  a  con 
traption  like  that  'tis  no  sign  he's  the 
fool,'  says  he.  '  'Tis  women  that  began 
the  throuble  in  the  world,  an'  'tis 
women  that  kape  it  up/  says  he,  an' 
he  flung  the  valentine  to  the  floor. 

""Tis  true,'  says  all  the  men  at 
wanst,  most  vartuous  like,  'we  can't 

[50] 


The   Universal   Need 


help  it  whin  the  women  falls  in  love 
with  us.' 

"I  see  it  was  time  to  take  a  hand. 
'Patrick  Mahoney,'  says  I,  pickin'  up 
the  pretty  valentine  an'  holding  it 
afore  his  eyes,  'can  ye  look  in  the  face 
iv  ye'er  true  an'  honorable  wife  an' 
swear  ye  know  nothin'  iv  this? ' 

"'Can  ye  ask  it?'  says  he,  an'  looks 
at  me  steady  with  the  eyes  iv  a  patient 
ox.  Sure  I  cud  have  kissed  him  in 
sight  iv  the  whole  company  —  two 
gray-haired  old  fools  —  but  I  laughed 
instid  an'  turned  to  the  secret  mark  at 
the  bottom  iv  the  verses.  He  looks 
at  it  dumb  for  a  minute,  an'  thin  all 
at  wanst  light  breaks  in  his  old  face 
like  the  sunrise  over  a  hill. 

'"Will  ye  niver  have  done  with  ye'er 

[511 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

foolin'?'  says  he.  Thin  he  stood  up 
on  his  chair  an'  spoke  with  a  voice  like 
an  alderman  makin'  a  speech  afore 
eliction.  'Ladies  an'  gintlemen,'  says 
he,  'the  valentine  is  from  me  own  true 
love.  The  mark  iv  her  is  here,  the 
same  she  used  on  me  love-letthers  afore 
she  learned  to  write  intelligint,'  says  he. 

"'Ye'er  lyin','  says  I.  "Twas  me- 
self  showed  you  how  to  write  a  love- 
letther,  or  I'd  been  waitin'  for  thim 
yet/  says  I. 

"With  that  the  explanations  fol 
lowed  an'  the  beer  an'  cakes  wint  round 
an'  iverybody  laughed  except  Mrs. 
Greifen.  'Twas  hard  times  an'  she 
cudn't  get  the  joke." 

"It  was  an  Irish  joke,"  said  Mrs. 
Mooney. 

[521 


The    Universal   Need 


"An'  like  an  Irish  joke  it  hit  the 
mark/'  said  Mrs.  Mahoney.  "The 
very  next  day  me  old  man  wint  out 
cheerful  like  an'  found  a  couple  iv  jobs 
just  awaitin'  to  fall  onto  him." 

"But  the  charity  woman! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Hoesing.  "You  told  her  the 
money  was  for  'the  universal  need." 

"Sure,  an'  that  was  no  lie,"  replied 
the  old  woman. 


[53 


A    BIT    OF    LIFE 


[55 


IV 
A    BIT    OF    LIFE 

x 

MRS.  HOESING  took   up   her 
knitting  and  walked  around 
to  the  rear  flat,  where   she 
found  Mrs.Mahoney  and  Mrs.  Mooney 
reading  the  death  notices  in  the  last 
evening  paper. 

"  What  makes  you  read  such  things?  " 
she  asked. 

"Sure  an'  ye  wudn't  have  all  iv  ye'er 
f rinds  die  an'  not  know  it?"  cried  Mrs. 
Mahoney. 

"She  just  found  one  here,"  said  Mrs. 
Mooney,  "an  old  friend  and  neighbor." 

[571 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Not  just  a  frind  was  he,"  said  the 
old  woman,  "  though  I  doubt  not 
neighbors  shud  be  frinds,  an'  frinds 
shud  be  neighbors,  but  'tis  a  quare 
world  at  best  an'  things  are  not  as  they 
shud  be." 

"Has  anybody  died  that  you  was 
neighbor  to?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hoesing 
anxiously. 

"Wait  till  I  get  a  bit  iv  tay  in  the 
cups,  an'  I'll  tell  ye,"  she  replied. 

"Ye  can  see  be  the  paper  here  — 
'Gustav  Greifen,  age  fifty-five  years, 
beloved  husband  iv  Gretchen;  father 
iv  Conrad,  Mary,  Martha,  John,  an' 
Henry.'  Will  ye  mind  that!  'Be 
loved  husband!'  I  knew  him  for  a 
poor  drinkin'  brute  that  wud  turn  the 
hair  iv  a  saint,  but  'tis  like  that  whin 

[58] 


A  Bit  of  Life 

we  are  gone.  I'll  be  raymimbered  for 
an  angel  wan  iv  these  days,  but  that's 
nayther  here  nor  there.  'Tis  iv  the 
childher  I'm  thinkin'  now,  an'  the 
betther  times  for  thim." 

"Are  any  of  them  old  enough  to 
help?"  asked  Mrs.  Hoesing. 

"Sure,  an'  the  boy  Conrad  had  niver 
a  chance  to  do  annything  else,  what 
with  the  small  childher  and  the  drinkin' 
father.  He  was  a  good  boy,  was  Con 
rad,  an'  he  took  his  teachin'  airly. 
Manny's  the  night  I've  slipped  into 
the  rear  iv  The  Tiniment  (we  was 
in  front  thin),  to  see  if  they'd  a 
bite  for  supper,  an'  there  the  good 
woman  sat  with  her  Sunday-school 
lesson  on  her  lap  an'  the  boy  at  her 
knee. 

[59] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"' Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart/ 
says  she  to  him. 

"'Yes,  mother/  says  he,  obedient 
like,  for  I  niver  see  such  a  boy  to  mind. 

"'Say  it/  says  she,  an'  the  child  says 
it,  'Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart.' 
With  that  he  goes  to  bed,  for  the 
mother  had  to  drag  him  out  airly  to 
sell  papers  before  the  school  hour  an' 
the  poor  lad  had  small  time  for  play. 

"Well,  'tis  hard  tellin'  how  to  raise 
childher,  for  the  boy  that  had  the  cares 
iv  a  man,  an'  wud  be  thinkin'  iv  his 
mother  an'  the  rint,  wud  ye  believe  it? 
that  boy  grew  steady  an'  dependable 
an'  niver  a  trace  iv  the  father  in  him, 
an'  makin'  twelve  dollars  a  week. 
Faith,  ye  cud  look  into  his  eyes  as  ye 
look  into  a  spring  in  the  country  an' 

[60] 


BLESSED    ARE    THE     PURE     IN     HEART" 


A  Bit  of  Life 

see  to  the  bottom.  There  was  no  mud 
in  the  spring. 

"Thin  wan  day  I  see  he  was  marked 
for  trouble." 

"How  could  you  see  it?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mooney. 

"I  see  the  girl  in  the  tay-cup  first  an' 
aftherwards  I  see  her.  She  was  a  slip 
iv  a  girl  with  eyes  iv  the  mornin'  an'  a 
voice  like  a  singin'  bird  callin'  for.  a 
mate.  An'  the  poor  lad,  he  looked  in 
the  eyes  iv  her,  an'  he  heard  the  voice  iv 
her,  an'  the  heart  wint  out  iv  him." 

"And  the  poor  mother  that  worked 
so  hard  to  raise  him,  give  him  up  just 
when  she  needed  him  most,"  said  Mrs. 
Hoesing. 

"Not  so  fast,"  continued  the  old 
woman.  "Mothers  ain't  always  so 

[611 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

aisy  an'  so  it  was  this  time.  Mrs. 
Greifen  said  it  wud  niver  do,  seein' 
he  had  learned  from  the  Lutheran  book, 
an'  the  girl  was  a  good  Catholic.  An' 
Mrs.  O'Moore  (her  name  was  Sally) 
said  it  was  not  the  plan  iv  the  family  to 
give  Sally  to  a  German  lad  with  a 
drinkin'  father  an'  a  mother  to  take 
his  wages  on  a  pay  day.  An'  Mrs. 
Greifen,  she  talked  back  that  as  for 
the  drink,  there  was  small  use  in  the 
kettle  callin'  the  pot  black,  which  was 
true  for  ye.  Mike  O'Moore  sildom 
got  home  with  all  his  wages  on  a 
Saturday  night,  an'  the  wife  iv  him 
had  a  hard  time  with  the  pride  that  was 
born  in  her  to  kape  up  betther  thin  the 
neighbors.  An'  so  Sally  had  to  work 
in  a  store  for  three  dollars  a  week,  but 

[62] 


A  Bit  of  Life 

the  mother  put  the  most  iv  it  on  the 
girl's  back,  for  she  had  it  in  her  heart 
that  Sally  must  marry  well,  an'  she 
knew  the  way  to  catch  the  eye  iv  a 
promisin'  youth. 

"So  there  was  hard  words  in  the 
families,  an'  the  young  things  met  on 
the  quiet,  an'  waited  for  betther  luck. 
An'  that  is  where  all  the  throuble  come 
from  —  the  waitin'.  'Tis  not  nature 
to  wait  whin  ye've  found  ye'er  true 
mate,  an'  we  old  fools  shud  niver  ask 
it." 

"You  wouldn't  have  children  forget 
their  duty  to  parents!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Hoesing. 

"Poor  things,  what  could  they  do?" 
asked  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"Duty,"   resumed   the   old   woman 

[631 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

with  increased  emphasis.  "An'  what 
cud  they  do?  I'd  have  thim  do  as  the 
birds  do  —  begin  the  nest  together, 
wan  straw  at  a  time  till  it's  finished ! 

"Well,  as  I  said,  the  long  waitin'  did 
it.  Whin  he  had  a  dollar  saved  the 
littlest  wan  took  the  measles  bad  an' 
there  was  the  medicine  to  buy.  An' 
afther  that  John  broke  an  arm  jumpin' 
over  the  back  fence  —  an'  so  it  wint. 
She  see  he  cudn't  lay  by  annything,  an' 
her  mother  throwed  it  up  to  her  how  he 
had  a  family  ready  made  an'  no  more 
childher  needed.  Thin  another  lad 
come  along.  Have  ye  iver  noticed, 
they'se  always  three  parties  to  the 
course  iv  true  love,  an'  that  means 
throuble  sure  for  wan  iv  thim.  Some 
times  it  is  two  lads  an'  wan  girl,  an' 

[64] 


A  Bit  of  Life 

again  it  is  two  girls  an'  but  wan  lad 
for  the  two  iv  thim,  but  'tis  bad  anny- 
way.  The  second  lad  was  Irish  an' 
the  mother  favored  him.  He'd  no  kin 
in  the  city  an'  soon  to  be  a  boss  at 
fourteen  dollars  a  week,  so  he  said. 
Thin  he  was  free  with  his  money  whin 
my  poor  lad  cudn't  kape  his  own  wages, 
what  with  the  drinkin'  father  an'  the 
small  childher. 

"Thin  wan  day,  it  was  afther  the 
Christmas  holidays,  Sally  come  home 
an'  told  how  she'd  been  laid  off  at  the 
store,  for  nobody  was  buyin'  anny- 
thing,  havin'  spent  all  the  money  in 
cilebration  iv  the  blessed  day,  which  is 
a  way  folks  have.  An'  ivery  mornin' 
she  wint  out  to  offer  her  pretty  face  for 
a  payin'  job,  an'  ivery  night  she  come 

[651 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

back  an'  says  they'se  no  call  for  more 
girls  yet.  Thin  the  father  takes  an 
other  drink,  bad  luck  to  him,  an'  he 
tells  Sally  to  work  or  get  married. 
The  mother  goes  to  Mrs.  Greifen  an' 
teUs  her  no  Germans  need  apply. 
Sally  must  marry  Pat  —  that  was  the 
other  wan.  Mrs.  Greifen  ain't  so 
sorry,  havin'  no  love  for  the  family. 
Thin  Sally  cries,  an'  Conrad,  he  looks 
like  a  child  that's  been  struck  an' 
don't  know  what  for.  By  an'  by,  I 
think  'tis  time  to  take  a  hand  meself, 
though  I  doubt  much  interferin'  iv 
the  old  wans  in  such  a  matter.  So 
I  carries  a  note  from  Conrad  an' 
manages  to  get  it  to  Sally  whin  I 
wint  wan  evenin'  to  tell  thim  a  bit  iv 


news." 


[66 


A  Bit  of  Life 

"What  was  in  the  note?"  asked  Mrs. 
Mooney. 

"How  shud  I  know?"  replied  Mrs. 
Mahoney  innocently.  "I  but  glanced 
at  it  wanst  to  see  it  was  the  right  kind 
to  fetch  her. 

"Wurra,  wurra!  I  thought  it  was 
patched  up  between  thim  an'  so  it 
seemed  for  a  few  days,  but  the  old 
throuble  was  there.  It  was  a  hard 
winter  for  poor  folks,  an'  in  each  family 
the  man  was  drinkin'  an'  the  wife 
tryin'  to  cover  the  shame,  an'  the  poor 
childher  lookin'  for  more  work  an' 
money. 

"Thin  the  Irish  lad,  Pat,  he  gets 
obstreperous  like  a  young  colt  that's 
half-broke,  an'  he  puts  it  up  to  Sally. 
The  next  thing  I  know  Mrs.  O'Moore 

[67] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

has  told  all  the  neighbors  iv  her 
daughter's  good  luck.  Conrad,  he  sits 
be  the  fire  in  the  evenin'  readin'  the 
German  paper  upside  down,  an'  I  see 
his  mother  move  around  the  room  like 
she  thought  she  had  something  to  do, 
an'  she  stops  an'  smooths  his  hair  with 
her  big  hand  (he'd  wan  unruly  lock 
on  his  pate),  but  they'se  no  talkin', 
for  that  is  the  way  iv  these  Germans. 
"Wan  night,  about  a  week  before 
the  weddin',  which  was  bein'  hurried 
something  scandalous,  the  girl  gets  up 
at  two  o'clock  an'  slips  out  iv  the  door 
with  a  small  bundle  iv  things  an'  comes 
to  our  Tiniment,  an'  calls  softly  to  the 
lad  sleepin'  safe  in  his  own  bed.  He 
hears  the  voice  iv  his  heart,  an'  he  gets 
up  an'  comes  out  to  her." 

[681 


A  Bit  of  Life 

"She  was  a  bold  thing  an'  a  bad  one 
to  do  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hoesing. 

'You  can't  tell  that,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  Mooney.  "When  a  girl's  quick 
acting,  it's  no  sign  she's  bad." 

"Well,  anyhow,  she  oughtn't  to  have 
done  it,"  persisted  Mrs.  Hoesing. 

"True  for  ye.  There  they  was,  the 
two  childher,  she  cryin'  out  how  they'd 
run  away  together  that  night  an'  not 
care  for  the  old  folks  at  all;  he  chokin' 
with  the  struggle  in  the  soul  iv  him,  for 
he  was  a  good  lad  an'  he  loved  the 
girl  more  thin  common.  Mebbe  he 
thought  about  the  mother  whin  she'd 
made  him  say,  '  Blessed  are  the  pure  in 
heart.'  I  don't  know.  You  see  the 
play-writers  for  the  theater  always  has 
a  man  think  about  his  mother  at  the 

[691 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

right  time.  All  I  cud  iver  find  out  was 
this:  the  lad  took  her  by  the  arm  an' 
led  her  back  safe  to  her  father's  house." 

"But  how  did  you  know  that  much?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"How  did  I  know?  The  next 
mornin'  the  poor  boy  stops  in  the  front 
before  goin'  to  work  an'  asks  me  will  I 
just  run  over  an'  see  if  Sally  is  sick  this 
day.  An'  I  puts  on  me  thinkin'  cap  an' 
goes.  I  gets  a  little  out  iv  her,  and 
drags  a  mite  out  iv  him,  an'  I  goes 
from  wan  to  the  other  iv  those  foolish 
young  wans.  Wurra!  Wurra!  'Tis 
little  it  takes  to  spoil  a  young  life,  an' 
ye  can  niver  spoil  wan  without  ye  touch 
another. 

"She  thinks  his  love  has  grown  cold 
or  he'd  been  willin'  to  risk  annything 

[701 


A  Bit  of  Life 

along  with  her.  An'  he  acts  like  a 
piece  iv  his  idol  had  broken  down. 
I'm  thinkin'  it  had,  for  he  was  a 
man,  and  raymimber  this:  a  man 
niver  forgets  the  smallest  mistake  iv  a 
woman.  Manny's  the  poor  girl  has 
found  it  true  whin  just  wan  minute  iv 
foolishness  from  a  burstin'  heart  has 
filled  a  cup  iv  sorrow  for  her  to  quench 
the  thirst  iv  a  lifetime." 

Mrs.  Mahoney  paused.  "I'm  for 
get  tin'  me  manners.  Have  another 
cup  iv  tay." 

"But  you  haven't  told  us  the  end  of 
the  story,"  said  Mrs.  Hoesing. 

"Haven't  I!  Bad  luck  to  the  Ger 
man  onderstandin'.  Can't  ye  find  it? 
I  see  her  again  whin  I  wint  back  wanst 
afther  me  an'  the  old  man  moved  to 

[71] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

betther  our  financial  prospects.  She 
had  two  Irish  babies  in  her  arms,  an' 
the  look  ye  see  on  the  face  iv  a  woman 
that  is  weary  with  the  seekin'  afther 
something  she  can't  find.  An'  me  poor 
lad!  Six  feet  iv  solid  German  he  was, 
fillin'  the  chair  be  the  kitchen  fire  afther 
the  day's  work,  readin'  the  German 
paper,  with  the  big  hand  iv  his  mother 
smoothin'  the  wan  unruly  lock  iv  his 
hair." 

"I  don't  like  your  story,"  complained 
Mrs.  Mooney.  "When  you're  tellin' 
one,  why  can't  you  make  it  come  out 
right?" 

" Story!  faith  an'  it's  no  story  at  all 
I'm  tellin'  ye,"  cried  the  old  woman. 
"'Tis  a  bit  iv  life." 

[72] 


THE    WAY    STATION 


[73] 


V 
THE    WAY    STATION 


MRS.  GUILDHEIMER  dropped 
her    knitting     and     looked 
sharply  at  her   daughter. 
"You  got  no  call  to  be  too  particular, 
Bertha.    You  have  twenty-four  years 
by  you.     If  you  don't  look  it  now  you 
will  one  day.     Gottlieb  Winderhagen 
is  a  man  already  and  no  foolishness 
about   him.     We'd   give   you   a   good 
wedding  like  your  sisters  had.     We  can 
yet  afford  it." 

"  Who'd  help  with  the  work  if  I  did 
step  off,  mother?"  replied  Bertha,  toss- 

[75] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

ing  the  dish  towel  over  the  rack.  "I 
notice  the  girls  don't  come  back  to  do 
it." 

"Never  mind,"  said  the  mother, 
impatiently.  "  Your  father  and  I  lived 
good  before  we  had  any  of  you." 

Bertha  smiled.  "I  guess  you  need 
me  yet,"  she  rejoined,  with  a  brave 
effort,  though  she  felt  the  smart  of 
unshed  tears. 

The  oldest  of  four  daughters,  Bertha 
had  been  left  "to  dance  in  the  trough," 
according  to  the  old  saying  lightly 
flung  at  the  girl  who  allows  her  younger 
sisters  to  be  married  before  she  herself 
has  secured  a  lover.  Three  years  ago 
when  she  was  helping  her  mother  with 
the  elaborate  preparations  for  the  first 
wedding  supper,  she  had  tossed  her 

[76] 


The  Way  Station 


head  with  a  quick  retort,  for  her 
generous  soul  felt  no  sting  in  the  jest 
gaily  passed  from  friend  to  friend. 
The  second  time  she  still  held  up  her 
head,  for  the  supper  displayed  her 
skill,  she  had  partners  for  every  dance, 
and  all.>the  married  men  had  jovially 
offered  "to  recommend  her."  Last 
night  the  old  joke  seemed  coarse. 
Every  one  took  a  hand  in  the  attempted 
explanation  of  her  unwedded  state  at 
the  serious  age  of  twenty-four  years. 
She  heard  her  father,  whom  she  dearly 
loved,  clumsily  praising  her  many 
housewifely  accomplishments  to  a 
group  of  stolid  German  men  who  were 
silently  devouring  large  portions  of  her 
famous  potato  and  onion  salad,  and 
she  felt  the  keen  eyes  of  her  mother 

[77] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

jealously  watching  the  popular  girls 
still  in  their  teens.  Only  one  man,  the 
unloved  Gottlieb  who  could  not  dance, 
had  offered  her  any  marked  attention. 

"You  remember  last  night,"  con 
tinued  the  mother, "  when  all  the  foolish 
girls  went  before  you  in  the  dancing." 

"I  could  have  danced  more  if  I'd 
cared  about  it,"  began  Bertha,  stung 
to  an  unwonted  self-defense,  but  she 
blushed  guiltily  and  turned  into  her 
little  bedroom. 

Very  still  it  seemed,  this  little  room 
that  would  be  hers  alone  now  that  the 
last  of  her  sisters  had  gone.  For  a 
moment  she  stood,  a  drooping  figure 
in  the  oppressive  silence,  then  walked 
determinedly  to  the  looking-glass.  A 
round  plump  face,  a  mass  of  freckles 

[781 


The  Way  Station 


over  the  cheek-bones,  a  large  mouth, 
and  a  snub  nose  —  the  reflection  was 
clear  and  relentless.  She  opened  the 
top  bureau  drawer  and  cautiously 
brought  forth  two  pictures.  One  was 
a  highly  colored  delineation  of  a  young 
man  and  a  beautiful  girl  standing  close 
together  before  a  spreading  oak-tree 
in  a  red  and  green  forest.  The  girl 
had  long  yellow  braids  like  her  own. 
He  was  tall  and  dark.  One  strong 
arm  was  clasped  around  her  waist. 
With  the  free  hand  he  was  carving 
letters  in  the  bark  of  the  red  and  green 
oak.  In  the  other  picture  a  pale  nun 
with  upturned  eyes  and  praying  hands 
knelt  beside  a  window  that  opened 
upon  the  cold  beauty  of  a  barren, 
snow-covered  earth. 

[791 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Bertha!" 

"Coming,  mother." 

"What  do  you  find  by  yourself  all 
the  time?  Sit  down.  We  have  some 
thing  to  settle.  Here  is  one  man  who 
makes  the  offer  —  one  man.  Your 
father  and  I  think  it  good.  It  is  a 
chance  for  you.  You  are  a  good  girl, 
Bertha,  but  you  have  not  the  beauty, 
and  that's  what  the  young  fools  these 
days  must  look  for.  Listen!  You 
think  to  go  on  like  this  forever?  The 
father  and  I  will  one  day  be  gone. 
You  must  live  then  in  a  boarding  house 
with  these  loud  girls  that  wander  up 
and  down  the  streets  by  night  when 
there  is  not  a  place  for  all  to  sit  in  a 
front  room.  And  you  must  buy  all  the 
clothes  from  that  store  where  you  work, 

[801 


The  Way  Station 


the  machine  clothes  with  the  buttons 
sewed  on  by  a  single  thread  and  ready 
to  drop  off  any  minute,  like  no  decent 
girl  can  wear.  And  then  you  have  no 
man  to  come  in  to  the  hot  supper  and 
sit  by  the  stove,  and  no  children  in 
your  arms  - 

"  Don't,  mother,"  interrupted  the 
girl,  catching  her  breath.  Slowly  the 
light  of  the  brilliant  forest  faded  into 
a  gray  winter  night,  and  the  girl  with 
the  long  yellow  braids  and  the  strong 
arm  around  her  waist  melted  into  the 
supplicating  figure  of  a  pale  nun. 

"I'm  through  and  I  guess  I'll  go  to 
bed  early,"  she  said  wearily. 

"It  is  not  eight  yet  by  the  clock, 
and  you  have  not  told  what  stands 
against  the  man,"  persisted  the  mother. 

[81] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"I -- I  — don't  like  him,"  faltered 
the  girl. 

"Ach,  not  already,  but  you  will," 
declared  Mrs.  Guildheimer,  in  a  more 
conciliatory  tone.  "  Girls  don't  know 
what  they  want.  He's  a  good  man  - 
no  drinking,  and  a  steady  job.  That 
is  enough  for  any  woman  of  sense." 

Bertha  looked  at  her  mother  plead 
ingly,  but  checked  the  impulse  to  ask 
if  that  had  been  enough  when  the  father 
came  wooing.  Theirs  had  been  a  life 
of  simple  domestic  joys  and  sorrows, 
commonplace,  uneventful,  and  perhaps 
a  little  sordid,  but  to  the  girl  who 
brooded  in  secret  there  had  always 
been  the  instinctive  feeling  that  the 
silent,  homely,  slow-moving  father  and 
the  active,  pretty,  talkative  mother 

[82] 


The  Way  Station 


lived  together  because  —  well,  just  be 
cause  in  the  mysterious  order  of  things 
they  belonged  together.  Although  she 
could  not  have  defined  her  conviction, 
she  had  felt  sure  of  her  own  birthright, 
and  in  her  dreams  she  saw  children  born 
of  a  love  that  had  never  come  to  her. 
Now  this  same  mother,  who  must 
know,  was  asking  her  to  marry  a  man 
repellent  to  every  fiber  of  her  being. 

" Mother,"  she  begged,  "do  you 
really  mean  that  I  must  marry  a  man 
I  don't  —  don't  like?"  She  could  not 
bring  herself  to  say  "love."  That 
meant  too  much. 

Mrs.  Guildheimer  hesitated.  "Of 
course,  child,  it  is  my  wish  that  you 
are  happy,  but  it  is  not  to  be  foolish  at 
twenty-four.  A  girl  MUST  be  mar- 

[83] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

ried.  When  she  don't  find  it  just 
right,  she  must  make  the  best  when 
something  comes." 

"But  I  can  work,  mother.  I  have 
proved  that  I  can  take  care  of  myself." 

"Ei,  ei!"  exclaimed  the  mother, 
losing  all  patience.  "Such  a  foolish 
ness!  No  woman  makes  it  out  to  take 
care  of  herself.  It  shall  not  be  so  for 
you.  It  is  not  known  in  the  family. 
I  will  again  speak  to  the  father  tonight. 
It  shall  not  be." 

"I  said  I'd  go  to  bed  early  and  I 
guess  I  will,"  said  the  girl,  seeing  no 
other  way  to  close  the  disagreeable 
subject. 

"Not  yet,"  ordered  the  mother 
quickly.  "I  hear  some  one  coming." 

Bertha  ran  to  her  bedroom. 

[84] 


The  Way  Station 


"  You  know  I  cannot  move  from  the 
chair,"  cried  Mrs.  Guildheimer.  "The 
rheumatism  is  bad  tonight." 

The  daughter  returned  at  her  moth 
er's  call  and  stood  silent  in  the 
middle  of  the  room.  They  were  not 
the  footsteps  of  a  man,  and  she 
was  free  to  share  her  mother's  curi 
osity. 

"Who  can  it  be?  "queried  the  mother, 
moving  the  lamp  that  she  might  shade 
her  eyes  and  perhaps  get  a  glimpse 
through  the  window. 

"Ach!  It  is  Mrs.  Mahoney  and 
Mrs.  Mooney,  the  gadders!" 

The  two  women  knocked  at  the  door 
and  opened  it  before  Bertha  could 
reach  them.  They  were  a  little  breath 
less  and  carried  an  atmosphere  of 

[85] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

excitement  that  met  an  immediate 
response  in  Mrs.  Guildheimer. 

"  Somebody  sick?  and  me  fastened 
to  this  chair  with  the  rheumatism." 

"No,  no,"  assured  Mrs.  Mahoney. 
"  We're  bearin'  no  bad  news.  We 
thought  mebbe  ye'd  like  to  come  over 
to  the  meetin'." 

"It  ain't  just  church,"  explained 
Mrs.  Mooney  in  answer  to  the  dazed 
look  on  the  face  of  her  German  neigh 
bor,  "though  Mrs.  Hoesing  will  say  it 
is  the  next  thing  to  it,  being  somebody's 
kind  of  religion." 

"What  foolishness  is  it  you  talk 
about?"  asked  Mrs.  Guildheimer  im 
patiently. 

"Ye  haven't  heard,  an'  here  I  was 
thinkin'  all  the  neighbors  had  the  first 

[86] 


The  Way  Station 


news  iv  her  an'  no  thin'  left  to  tell," 
cried  Mrs.  Mahoney,  joyfully;  "but  it's 
told  in  wan  word.  They'se  a  spiritu 
alist  woman  —  a  -  a  clairvouyant  — 
that's  the  name  —  an'  she's  rinted  a 
room  for  the  half  iv  a  fortnight  from 
Mrs.  Hoesing.  We're  kapin'  it  dark. 
The  City  was  afther  her  in  the  last 
place  an'  it  wudn't  do  to  let  thim  get 
the  poor  soul  here,  for  she's  a  good 
woman  I'm  thinkin',  if  she  is  a  bit  off 
in  her  head,  an'  small  wonder  with 
bein'  a  widow  an'  six  childer  to  feed." 

Mrs.  Guildheimer's  ball  of  yarn 
slipped  from  her  lap  and  rolled  across 
the  floor  while  she  gazed  in  wide-eyed 
amazement  at  her  visitors. 

"And  you  will  make  something  out 
for  such  a  kind  of  woman!" 

[87] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"But  she's  the  real  thing/'  inter 
posed  Mrs.  Mooney.  "  There's  a  dif 
ference  in  those  kind  of  people.  She 
says  so  herself.  It's  cheap  too  —  only 
twenty -five  cents  for  a  sitting  and 
she'll  talk  half  an  hour  without  wink 
ing." 

"I  heard  one  of  the  girls  at  the  store 
talking  one  day  about  getting  her 
fortune  told  by  somebody  like  that," 
observed  Bertha,  "but  it  cost  fifty 
cents." 

"It's  all  a  great  foolishness,  and  no 
money  comes  out  from  me,"  asserted 
Mrs.  Guildheimer. 

"Sure,  an'  she'll  be  afther  tellin'  us 
all  about  Bertha's  weddin'.  It  might 
be  worth  more  thin  the  quarther," 
suggested  Mrs.  Mahoney. 

[88] 


The  Way  Station 


"How  can  she  do  it?"  asked  the 
mother,  cautiously. 

"I  tried  it  to  see  for  myself  and 
I'm  not  so  easy  fooled,"  replied  Mrs. 
Mooney.  "  She's  taken  the  back  room 
off  the  kitchen  at  Mrs.  Hoesing's  where 
the  one  window  looks  on  the  alley  so 
it'll  be  dark.  You  go  in  there  and 
find  her  in  that  little  rocking-chair  by 
the  bed  where  she  sits  alone  the  whole 
living  day.  She  never  talks  much 
when  she  ain't  under  the  spell.  You 
put  questions  on  paper  and  fold  them 
in  and  put  them  in  her  hand.  Mind, 
she  don't  even  see  the  questions. 
Then  you  just  sit  on  the  bed  and  wait. 
Pretty  soon  she  drops  off  like  she's 
in  a  kind  of  fainting  fit,  only  just  when 
you  begin  to  get  scared,  she  sits  up  and 

[89] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

talks  a  blue  streak,  answering  all  the 
questions  on  paper  without  once  look 
ing  at  them!" 

"It's  only  twenty-five  cents,  moth 
er,"  interrupted  Bertha,  trying  to 
speak  carelessly,  "and  it  might  re 
lieve  your  mind  to  find  out  I  ain't 
going  to  marry  at  all,  but  just  stay 
here  and  take  care  of  you  and  father 
when  you're  old." 

"Ho,  ho!"  cried  Mrs.  Mahoney. 
"I've  heard  iv  girls  like  ye  afore  this. 
It's  a  sign  iv  somethin'.  Come  on  anny- 
how.  'Tis  action  that's  wanted  in 
this  world,  an'  not  overmuch  thinkin'. 
She  begins  at  seven  o'clock,  an'  sure, 
they'se  no  harm  at  all.  Bertha  will 
know  whin  to  look  for  the  light  or  the 
dark  complected  man.  The  woman 

[90] 


The  Way  Station 


found  a  lost  pocket-book  wanst,  an' 
what's  to  hinder  the  findin'  iv  a  man?  " 

"If  I  could  get  out  from  this  chair," 
began  Mrs.  Guildheimer.  "Bertha, 
bring  the  light  shawl  and  the  pocket- 
book." 

She  rose  painfully,  bending  to  rub 
her  stiff  knees,  but  Bertha  knew  that 
no  hardening  of  the  joints  had  as  yet 
been  serious  enough  to  keep  her  mother 
in  a  chair  if  there  was  any  sufficient 
reason  for  leaving  it. 

"We'll  go  on  ahead  and  have  her 
ready,"  said  Mrs.  Mooney.  "There'd 
better  not  be  too  many  go  to  the  room 
at  once." 

"  It's  like  the  Irish  to  make  some  such 
a  foolishness,"  grumbled  Mrs.  Guild 
heimer. 

[91] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

Bertha  was  too  wise  to  speak. 
Gently  she  drew  the  mother's  arm 
within  her  own  and  moved  slowly 
across  the  street  to  The  Tenement. 

The  curtain  of  the  alley  window  was 
closely  drawn.  The  strange  woman 
sat  in  the  cushioned  rocking-chair, 
waiting  for  the  young  girl  Mrs.  Ma- 
honey  had  promised  to  secure.  To 
Bertha's  excited  gaze  she  appeared 
thin  and  colorless,  with  a  blank  expres 
sion  in  her  pale  blue  eyes  as  if  she 
looked  and  saw  nothing. 

"Fold  the  paper  with  the  questions 
inside,"  the  strange  woman  was  saying, 
"and  do  not  tell  me  what  you  write. 
It  is  not  myself  but  the  spirits  of  your 
beloved  dead  that  speak  through  me." 

"But  - —  but  —  I  have  no  one  dead," 

[92] 


The  Way  Station 


said  Bertha,  suddenly  struck  by  this 
need  of  a  common  sorrow  that  had 
passed  by  her  young  life. 

"There  is  always  some  one  to  speak 
and  tell  us  all  that  is  good  for  us  to 
know,"  answered  the  strange  woman 
gently.  "  There  is  nothing  to  fear. 
Write." 

Bertha  bent  her  flushed  face  over 
the  scrap  of  paper  and  wrote  with  a 
trembling  hand : 

"Tell  me  if  I  must  always  be 
bothered  about  my  not  marrying,  be 
cause  there  is  only  one  man  wants  me 
and  I  don't  like  him." 

She  hurriedly  folded  the  paper  in  a 
tight  little  wad  and  thrust  it  into  the 
woman's  hand,  feeling  as  if  she  had 
laid  bare  the  holy  of  holies  of  the  heart. 


[93] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

The  strange  woman  rubbed  the  bit 
of  paper  between  her  two  palms,  and 
waited.  Slowly  the  lids  pressed  down 
over  the  expressionless  eyes,  a  convul 
sive  shiver  shook  her  body  three  times, 
and  she  fell  back  in  the  little  rocking- 
chair,  motionless  as  a  leaf  in  the  still 
ness  that  precedes  a  storm.  Then  a 
voice  that  seemed  a  thing  apart  from 
the  human  frame  and  unaffected  by  it 
fell  softly  on  the  frightened  sense  of 
the  waiting  girl. 

"You  are  troubled.  I  see  a  light- 
complected  man  near  you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  want  to  marry  him," 
interrupted  Bertha,  with  a  sob. 

"Of  course  you  don't,"  continued  the 
voice  soothingly.  "He  is  not  the  one 
for  you.  I  see  another  man,  tall  and 

[94] 


The  Way  Station 


dark.     He  is  farther  away,  but  he  is 
looking    in    your    direction.     He    will 


come." 


Bertha  was  leaning  forward  with 
parted  lips.  "When?"  she  whispered 
eagerly.  "When?  Oh,  please  tell  me 
when." 

"You  must  wait.  I  cannot  speak 
to  him  now.  He  is  in  the  future.  I 
can  just  see  that  he  is  coming.  And 
there  are  flowers  in  your  lap.  That 
means  you  are  a  good  girl  and  you  will 
be  happy.  Be  good  and  the  spirits  of 
the  good  will  guide  you.  You  will 
hear  them  speak." 

"I  —  I  —  never  hear  anything," 
faltered  the  girl,  looking  fearfully 
around  the  little  room. 

"You     will."     The     voice     seemed 

[95] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

farther  away.  "I  must  leave  you 
now." 

"Oh  stay,  stay  a  little.  It  is  yet 
so  much  to  know,"  cried  Bertha. 

"It  is  enough,"  said  the  voice.  This 
time  it  seemed  to  speak  from  the  corner 
of  the  ceiling.  "I  am  growing  weary. 
You  must  release  me.  Tell  me  it  is 
ended." 

"It  is  ended,"  repeated  Bertha  obedi 
ently. 

Again  the  convulsive  shiver  ran 
through  the  body  of  the  strange  woman, 
slowly  the  lids  lifted  over  the  pale 
blue  eyes  that  looked  at  Bertha  as 
one  suddenly  awakened  from  a  sound 
sleep. 

"I  hope  it  was  satisfactory,"  she 
said,  handing  back  the  slip  of  paper 

[96] 


The  Way  Station 


unopened,  and  taking  a  flat  purse  from 
her  pocket.  "  Sometimes  we  get  more 
and  sometimes  less,  but  we  must 
always  trust  that  we  get  no  more  than 
is  good  for  us  to  hear." 

"  Don't  you  really  know  what  I 
wrote?"  asked  Bertha,  eagerly. 

"  Certainly  not/'  replied  the  strange 
woman,  placing  the  quarter  in  her 
purse. 

Bertha   thrust   the    telltale    bit   of 

# 

paper  into  her  bosom  with  an  over 
whelming  sense  of  relief.  "Then  no 
one  needs  to  know,"  she  thought. 

"What  did  she  say?"  asked  the 
group  with  one  voice  as  Bertha  came 
into  the  kitchen. 

"Oh,"  replied  Bertha,  trying  to 
speak  lightly,  "she  said  I  must  not 

[97] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

marry  a  light-complected  man  and 
that's  all  I  need  to  know  just  now." 

"Ei,  ei,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Guild- 
heimer,  reaching  for  her  shawl.  "She 
told  you  what  was  set  in  your  own  head, 
and  nobody  needed  to  get  a  quarter 
out  from  me  to  find  that." 

Mrs.  Hoesing  and  Mrs.  Mooney 
expressed  their  disappointment,  but 
Mrs.  Mahoney  looked  at  the  flushed 
face  of  the  girl  and  smiled. 

"'Tis  enough,  I'm  thinkin'.  The 
girl  can  kape  the  best  iv  it.  'Tis  no 
need  for  the  old  fools  to  be  pryin'." 

Alone  in  her  little  bedroom,  Bertha 
again  opened  the  bureau  drawer  that 
concealed  the  two  pictures.  With  a 
trembling  hand  she  tore  the  white  nun 
into  fragments.  For  her  all  the  beauty, 

[98] 


The  Way  Station 


all  the  mystery  of  life  was  symbolized 
by  the  warmth  of  the  lurid  forest  that 
held  only  the  man  and  the  woman. 
She  knelt  by  the  bed  and  recalled  what 
the  strange  woman  had  spoken. 

"Be  good  and  the  spirits  of  the  good 
will  guide  you.  You  will  hear  them 
speak." 

"I  will  be  good,"  she  sobbed.  "I 
will  be  good,  and  I  wih1  listen.  I  will 
listen  now." 

Then  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  to 
her  straining  ears  the  whisper  of  an 
other  soul  seemed  to  reach  her  own: 
"I  am  coming.  Wait  for  me!" 


99 


WHY   WE   MARRY 


101 


VI 
WHY    WE    MARRY 


AFTER    a    year's    absence    the 
pretty  Polish  girl  had  come 
back  to  the  neighborhood,  a 
deserted  wife,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms. 
"God    help    her,"    exclaimed    Mrs. 
Mooney,  "but  she  had  a  right  to  know 
what  the  fellow  was  like  afore  she  mar 
ried  him.     I'm  sure  I  knowed  Tom." 

"Poor  soul,  but  'tis  the  way  iv 
women,"  said  Mrs.  Mahoney,  shaking 
her  old  head,  "an'  there's  small  help 
for  it.  We're  all  fools  about  the  men 
whin  it  comes  to  that." 

[103] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"  That's  true  for  you,"  interrupted 
Mrs.  O'Leary,  shifting  her  baby  to  the 
left  arm  to  make  room  for  the  two- 
year-old  child  at  her  knee.  "Many's 
the  time  I've  said  to  myself,  'Sarah 
O'Leary,  if  you  was  a  girl  again,  you'd 
stay  a  girl." 

"No  you  wouldn't,"  said  Mrs.  Hoe- 
sing.  "I  could  tell  you  all  why  we 
marry,  but  I'm  fearing  it's  a  long 
story." 

"A  story,  a  story  from  the  German! " 
cried  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"Start  in,"  ordered  Mrs.  Mahoney, 
"it's  not  always  ye're  doin'  the  talkin'." 

Each  woman  settled  into  the  com 
fortable  attitude  of  the  listener  and 
awaited  the  story  with  a  childlike 
interest.  Mrs.  Hoesing  clasped  her 

[104] 


Why  We  Marry 


large  hands  over  one  knee  and  began. 
"You  know  we  come  from  Germany 
when  I  was  but  a  slip  of  a  girl,  though 
you  wouldn't  think  it  now  from  the  size 
of  me.  It's  over  there  they  know  the 
story.  My  grandmother  told  it  to  my 
mother  when  my  father  would  come 
home  with  the  drink  in  him.  And  one 
day  my  mother  had  to  tell  it  to  me." 

The  women  all  nodded  in  sympathy. 
Every  one  in  the  block  knew  of  Mrs. 
Hoesing's  patient  loyalty  to  her  brutal 
husband. 

"The  story  is  in  one  of  the  old  books 
that  tells  about  the  Christ  and  the 
disciples  —  how  they  went  walking  and 
preaching  about  the  country,"  she 
continued. 

"In  our  Bible?"  asked  Mrs.  O'Leary. 

[105] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  Hoesing  slowly. 
"Not  rightly  there,  nor  in  ours  neither. 
Some  folks  say  it's  true  and  some  say 
it's  all  made  up,  so  it  never  got  into  any 
Bible,  but  it's  just  the  same.  It's  the 
words  of  Christ  and  we  must  abide  'em." 

"Bring  on  your  story  and  we'll  tell 
you  when  it's  true,"  said  Mrs.  Mooney. 

"I'm  slow  at  starting,"  began  Mrs. 
Hoesing,  "but  it  was  this  way.  One 
day  Christ  and  one  of  his  disciples  (I 
don't  rightly  remember  which  one) 
was  a-walking  and  a-walking  to  find  a 
certain  town  and  they  missed  the  right 
road.  They  come  to  a  field  of  golden 
grain  a-waving  in  the  sun,  and  Christ 
said:  'The  harvest  is  ripe.  There  be 
reapers  in  the  field.  We  will  ask  of 
them  the  way.'  So  they  went  into 

[106] 


Why  We  Marry 


the  field,  and  there  lay  a  man  in  the 
shade  of  some  bundles  of  grain.  He 
was  stretched  out  flat  on  his  back,  and 
he  never  moved  when  they  come  up, 
but  Christ  knowed  for  certain  the  man 
was  awake,  because  he  could  see 
through  every  one,  even  to  a  body's 
thinking.  So  Christ  said  to  the  man 
so  comfortable  in  the  shade,  'My  good 
man,  can  you  tell  us  the  road  to  the 
town? '  naming  the  place  he  was  after, 
which  place  I've  forgotten. 

" And  will  you  believe  it!  That  man 
never  so  much  as  spoke  a  word.  He 
just  stretched  out  his  right  leg  and 
wriggled  his  big  toe  in  the  direction  of 
the  road!" 

"God  save  us!"  gasped  Mrs.  Ma- 
honey.  "The  narve  iv  him!" 

[1071 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Yes,"  asserted  Mrs.  Hoesing  as 
if  she  expected  contradiction.  "You 
wouldn't  hardly  believe  it,  but  that's 
all  he'd  do.  He  was  just  so  lazy  and 
good-for-nothing.  Christ  said,  'We 
thank  you.'  Then  the  disciple  was 
mad  and  wanted  the  man  punished  for 
his  disrespect,  but  Christ  said,  'Let  be,' 
and  they  went  on.  A  little  way  from 
the  lazy  man  there  was  a  young  woman 
and  she  was  up  and  working  hard, 
cutting  grain  and  singing  an  old  song 
like  women  do  when  they  are  young  and 
happy." 

"Before  they  are  married,"  inter 
posed  Mrs.  O'Leary. 

Mrs.  Hoesing  did  not  heed  the  inter 
ruption.  "She  was  singing  and  you 
could  hear  her  all  over  the  field  like 

[108] 


Why  We  Marry 


the  birds  sing  in  the  morning  in  the 
country.  And  the  disciple  says  to 
Christ:  'I  do  not  trust  the  man.  He 
would  never  sing  at  his  work.  Let  us 
ask  the  woman.'  And  Christ  agreed, 
for  he  knew  just  what  he  was  about  all 
the  time.  So  they  called  to  the  woman 
and  asked  the  way,  and  she  stopped 
her  work  and  went  with  the  sickle  in 
her  hand  clean  out  of  the  field  of  waving 
grain  and  put  them  on  the  right  track. 
Then  Christ  said,  'We  thank  you/ 
but  the  disciple  did  not  understand, 
and  he  says  to  Christ:  'Must  they 
receive  the  same,  the  lazy  man  and 
the  willing  woman?  Master,  why  don't 
you  do  something  for  the  woman?' 

"  Christ  answered,"  here  Mrs.  Hoe- 
sing  lowered  her  voice,  "you  wouldn't 

[109] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

believe  it,  but  Christ  said,  'She  shall 
marry  that  man!" 

"  Mother  iv  God,"  cried  Mrs.  Ma- 
honey. 

"Is  it  a  true  story  you're  tellin'?" 
asked  Mrs.  Mooney  in  awestruck  tones. 

"It's  true  for  us,"  moaned  Mrs. 
O'Leary.  "I  don't  need  to  be  asking 
that." 

"The  disciple  didn't  understand," 
continued  the  story-teller,  "for  he  was 
a  poor  human  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  he 
says,  decided  like,  'She  won't  do  it'; 
and  Christ  said:  'Yes  she  will.  She 
will  marry  that  man  because  he  needs 
her.  Sometimes  it  is  the  man  and 
sometimes  the  woman  that  needs  most, 
but  whichever  way  it  is,  the  weak  must 
mate  with  the  strong.  It  is  the  law 

[HOI 


Why  We  Marry 


that  I  have  made  and  so  it  will  always 
be  in  the  world." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 
Then  a  sob  broke  from  Mrs.  O'Leary. 
Mrs.  Hoesing  put  out  a  sympathetic 
hand. 

"The  word  of  Christ  must  be  right," 
she  said  slowly,  "and  so  that's  how  we 
know,  if  we've  a  hard  life,  it's  because 
the  Law  of  Christ  has  found  us  strong." 


Ill] 


THE  GLORY  OF  THE  MAN 


113 


VII 
THE  GLORY  OF  THE  MAN* 

THE  hour  hand  of  the  little  open 
face  clock  on  the  shelf  above 
the  sink  was  close  to  four. 
Mrs.  Casey  thought  it  might  be  any 
where  from  twenty-five  to  ten  minutes 
short  of  that  hour.  For  reasons  un 
known  to  her,  nothing  could  go  on  in 
an  exact  way  in  the  Casey  household, 
and  so  she  was  not  surprised  when  the 
minute  hand  of  the  clock  became  loose 
without  cause,  and  dropped  into  a 
crack  behind  the  sink.  Neither  did 

*  From  The  Bellman,  April  2,  1910 
[115] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

she  marvel  that,  on  this  particular 
day  in  November,  the  baby  suddenly 
clenched  his  tiny  fists  and  screamed 
during  the  two  hours  of  the  afternoon 
she  had  set  aside  for  the  completion  of 
the  family  washing.  With  an  apathy 
born  of  days  of  physical  weariness  and 
mental  depression,  she  laid  the  ex 
hausted  baby  on  the  bed  and  went 
back  to  the  washtub.  She  knew  that 
washing  must  be  done  at  any  cost. 
Her  husband  hated  the  sight  of  those 
tubs  when  he  came  in  cold  and  hungry, 
and  she  must  manage  to  get  them  out 
of  the  way,  even  if  supper  was  late. 

But  the  fate  that  often  attaches  to 
cheerless  days  in  November  was 
against  her.  Mr.  Casey  found  the 
drizzling  rain  and  the  slippery  mud  an 

[116] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


increasing  obstacle  in  his  work  of 
sweeping  the  public  highway,  and  was 
forced  to  stop  an  hour  earlier  than 
usual.  This  misfortune  brought  his 
heavy  step  to  the  back  door  of  the 
third  landing  just  as  Mrs.  Casey,  after 
a  second  look  at  the  hour  hand, 
reached  the  anxious  conclusion  that 
it  couldn't  be  more  than  half  past 
four. 

"It's  no  use;  I  couldn't  help  it,  Jim," 
she  began  in  answer  to  the  scowl  on 
his  face. 

"Who's  talking?  I  ain't,"  he 
growled. 

"You'd  just  as  well  talk  as  look  that 
way,"  she  replied.  "You  don't  know 
nothing  about  it;  and  what's  more, 
you  never  will  learn.  The  baby's 

[117] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

been  crying  all  the  afternoon,  every 
blessed  minute;  and  the  tubs  stand 
ing  and  the  water  getting  cold  and  the 
children  tracking  in  and  out,  and  my 
back  aching  like  it  would  break  in 
two  in  the  middle.  I  wish  it  would, 
and  end  it.  You'd  marry  somebody 
that  might  please  you  —  for  a  while." 

"You  bet  I  would,"  he  replied 
grimly. 

The  quick  tears  rose  to  her  eyes, 
and  fell  into  the  suds  below  her  bent 
head. 

"  Don't  snivel,"  commanded  the 
husband.  "  Things  are  bad  enough 
without  that." 

Mrs.  Casey  raised  her  head.  "Sup 
pose  you  quit  talking  and  go  to  work 
and  help.  You've  got  an  hour.  Your 

[118] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


day  won't  be  so  long's  mine,  anyhow. 
I'll  have  the  dishes  to  wash  after 
supper,  and  the  children  to  clean  up 
for  bed,  and  like  as  not  the  baby  will 
cry  half  the  night.  He's  that  fretful 
with  his  teeth." 

Mr.  Casey  took  his  hat  from  the 
nail,  where  he  had  so  recently  hung  it. 

" That's  right,"  said  the  wife.  "Go 
to  Murphy's  and  spend  your  money 
treating  them  lazy  loafers  over  there. 
You  know  the  children  need  shoes; 
the  rent'll  be  due  day  after  tomorrow, 
and  the  butcher  refused  credit  today; 
but  such  things  don't  bother  you. 
Oh,  no!" 

"  You'd  drive  a  man  to  Hell,"  he 
muttered,  reaching  for  the  door  knob. 

The  wind  rattled  the  loose  casings, 

[119] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

and  drove  the  sleet  in  a  straight  line 
against  the  window  panes. 

" Shall  I  go,  or  stay?"  he  asked. 
"You  know  it's  up  to  you." 

"No,  it  ain't,"  she  replied  coolly. 

He  looked  at  her,  with  the  surprise 
of  a  man  to  whom  the  unexpected 
rarely  comes.  Scenes  like  this  had 
been  frequent  in  their  lives  since  she 
had  discovered  the  exact  amount  of 
his  daily  wage,  and,  by  a  simple 
process  of  subtraction,  had  been  able 
to  estimate  the  loss  due  to  Murphy's. 
He  was  familiar  with  the  part  each 
one  played  up  to  this  point,  but  the 
leading  lady  had  evidently  forgotten 
her  lines.  It  was  her  wont  to  falter 
after  the  first  irritable  outburst,  and  beg 
him  to  stay  in  at  the  price  of  her  silence. 

[1201 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


"I  say,  it's  up  to  you,"  he  repeated 
in  a  louder  tone. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  she  retorted,  with 
out  raising  her  voice. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say.  I'm  willing  to  see 
you  get  your  share  of  drink  like  any 
other  man  that  works;  but  when  it 
comes  to  letting  you  pay  for  the 
drinks  of  a  lot  of  saloon  loafers,  for 
no  cause  but  to  make  folks  think 
you've  got  a  full  pocket,  I  ain't  going 
to  keep  still  about  it." 

"You  know  I  ain't  going  to  stand 
chin-music.  If  you  shut  up  I  stay  in. 
You  know  that."  Mr.  Casey  re-hung 
his  hat  on  the  nail.  He  felt  he  had 
gained  his  point.  The  scene  had 
always  ended  with  this  ultimatum. 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

But  the  spirit  of  rebellion  had  been 
crushed  too  often.  "I  didn't  say  I'd 
shut  up."  She  spoke  with  an  exag 
gerated  calmness,  quite  unlike  her 
usual  tearful  pleadings. 

" You'd  better  say  it,"  he  com 
manded  threateningly. 

"I  ain't  going  to,"  she  replied 
steadily. 

Mr.  Casey  looked  at  his  wife  with 
out  comprehension.  He  had  fre 
quently  told  her  not  to  " snivel";  but 
he  began  to  think  a  tearful  and  sub 
missive  wife  was  more  comfortable 
than  one  bright-eyed  and  openly  de 
fiant. 

"Did  anybody  ever  see  such  a  look 
ing  place  as  this  for  a  tired  and  hungry 
man  to  come  to?"  he  asked.  He 

[122] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


knew  he  was  touching  a  sore  spot, 
and  waited  for  the  tears  to  start. 

" Whose  fault  is  it?"  she  flashed 
back  at  him.  "Whose  fault  is  it,  I 
say,  that  we're  cluttered  up  in  three 
rooms  with  never  so  much  as  a  single 
clothes-closet  or  a  wardrobe  to  put 
anything  out  of  the  way?  The  money 
you  spend  for  the  drink  would  put  us 
on  our  feet  and  pay  rent  for  a  decent 
place." 

"  You'd  keep  it  in  the  same  way," 
he  said  brutally. 

"Try  me." 

"Not  on  your  life." 

Both  stopped  for  a  moment  and 
looked  at  the  wretched  place  they 
called  home;  the  man  with  the  air  of 
one  who  has  been  cheated  out  of  his 

[1231 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

unquestioned  rights,  the  woman  with 
a  miserable  sense  of  injustice  sharp 
ened  by  the  futility  of  her  position. 

The  kitchen,  which  served  as  a 
dining  and  sitting  room,  was  dreary 
enough  under  the  most  favorable  cir 
cumstances,  but  on  a  rainy  washday 
a  double  line  of  wet  clothes  hung 
back  of  the  stove  and  filled  the  rooms 
with  damp  odors.  A  motley  collec 
tion  of  shoes,  caps,  coats,  and  un- 
mended  trousers  made  an  ugly  heap 
in  one  corner  near  a  bushel  basket 
filled  with  potatoes  and  turnips.  The 
table  was  covered  with  a  confused 
array  of  dishes  and  kitchen  utensils, 
there  being  too  little  space  in  the  tiny 
pantry  to  admit  of  an  orderly  arrange 
ment  of  both  dishes  and  food.  A 

[124] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


small  door  between  the  stove  and  the 
sink  opened  into  a  room,  large  enough 
to  hold  two  beds  and  leave  an  open 
space  of  three  feet  between  them. 
The  one  decoration  of  this  room  was  the 
wedding  certificate,  framed  in  white 
and  gold,  and  bearing  below  a  pair  of 
clasped  hands,  the  solemn  assurance  of 
the  union  of  Aileen  Mullen  and  James 
Casey  in  the  holy  bonds  of  matrimony. 

"Nice  home  for  an  American  man," 
he  remarked. 

"I'm  just  as  much  American  as  you 
are,"  she  reminded  him;  "and  it's 
worse  for  me." 

"Do  you  think  I'm  responsible  for 
your  kind  of  housekeeping?"  he  asked, 
giving  a  vicious  kick  at  the  pile  of 
soiled  clothes  near  the  tub. 

[1251 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Yes,  you  are,  Jim  Casey.  It's 
your  fault  we  can't  live  decent  like 
other  folks,  that's  got  no  more  than 
we  have,  if  we'd  just  spend  it  right." 

"So  you've  got  back  to  that  again. 
Now  look  here.  I've  told  you  for  the 
last  time  to  shut  up  or  I'd  leave. 
Are  you  going  to  quit?" 

"No,  I  ain't.  I  ain't  going  to  quit 
so  long's  you  keep  throwing  up  to  me 
how  things  look  when  you're  the  one 
to  blame.  I've  stood  it  long  enough." 

"All  right,"  he  replied.  "Then 
you'll  take  what's  coming.  That's 
all." 

Mrs.  Casey  looked  up  with  a  sudden 
premonition  of  danger;  but  she  could 
not  help  the  challenge,  "I'm  ready." 

Mr.   Casey  preserved  his  own  dig- 

[126] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


nity  by  allowing  her  to  have  the  last 
word.  This  was  less  difficult,  because 
he  had  reached  a  sudden  decision. 
He  took  up  his  penny  paper  and  began 
to  read. 

There  was  a  noisy  sound  of  quarrel 
ing  in  the  bedroom.  "Katie,  can't 
you  keep  the  children  quiet?"  called 
Mrs.  Casey.  "Seems  to  me  I've  had 
about  enough  today." 

"They're   hungry,"   pleaded   Katie. 

"Time  to  eat,"  cried  the  boy. 

"You'd  better  start  supper  and  fill 
'em  up  with  something.  I  want  to 
get  out  early."  Mr.  Casey  spoke  com 
fortably. 

With  the  old  docility  that  had  for 
the  moment  deserted  her,  Mrs.  Casey 
left  her  tubs  and  went  about  the 

[127] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

preparation  of  the  supper.  It  was  the 
same  thing  every  night;  a  bit  of  fried 
meat,  fried  potatoes,  a  puffy  loaf  of 
baker's  bread,  the  molasses  that  took 
the  place  of  butter  and  proved  far 
cheaper  in  the  course  of  the  week,  and 
the  strong  tea  turned  from  the  pot 
that  had  been  simmering  at  the  back 
of  the  stove  since  noon. 

It  was  a  silent  meal,  save  for  the 
rattle  of  knives  and  the  noisy  eating 
of  the  children. 

"You  ain't  going  out?"  ventured 
Mrs.  Casey,  as  her  husband  rose  from 
the  table. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "and  what's  more, 
I  ain't  coming  back." 

"You're  joking,"  said  Mrs.  Casey 
feebly. 

[1281 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


Mr.  Casey  smiled.  "You  thought 
I  didn't  mean  what  I  said,  when  I  told 
you  to  shut  up  or  you'd  take  what's 
coming." 

Mrs.  Casey  turned  pale.  In  an 
instant  she  had  realized  that  she  had 
never  tested  him  before.  She  had 
always  been  the  one  to  surrender.  A 
bitter  cry  rose  to  her  lips,  the  age-old 
cry  of  the  woman  in  the  face  of  the 
primitive  tyranny  of  the  man ;  but  she 
made  no  sound.  A  swift  intuition, 
the  unlooked-for  guidance  that  some 
times  reaches  a  woman  in  a  crisis,  had 
come  to  her. 

"You  will  need  some  clean  clothes 
to  take  with  you,"  she  said  calmly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  You  needn't 
bother.  Make  'em  over  for  the  kids." 

[129] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

'You'd  better  take  a  few,"  she  per 
sisted,  and  went  to  the  chest  of  draw 
ers  to  select  socks  and  faded  shirts. 

The  man  looked  around  uneasity, 
then  sat  down  on  the  nearest  chair. 
There  was  no  hurry,  and  she  evi 
dently  was  not  going  to  make  a  fuss. 
Perhaps  she  was  glad  to  get  rid  of 
him.  The  thought  struck  him  un 
pleasantly. 

"If  you  don't  want  that  paper,  I 
can  tie  the  things  up  in  that."  She 
stood  before  him  with  the  bundle. 
He  took  it  from  her  awkwardly  and 
rolled  the  newspaper  around  it. 

"Seems  to  be  clearing  up  a  little," 
she  remarked,  wiping  the  steam  from 
the  window  pane,  and  peering  through 
the  glass. 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


He  followed  her  to  the  window  and 
looked  out. 

"Guess  I'll  be  going.  I  ain't  got 
too  much  time.  There's  a  freight 
comes  along  at  the  crossing  about  half 
past  seven.  I'll  catch  a  ride  on  that." 

"Mebbe  I'll  walk  to  the  crossing 
with  you  and  see  you  off,"  she  sug 
gested. 

"I  can't  wait,"  he  said,  impatiently. 

"It  won't  take  more'n  a  minute. 
I'll  just  run  down  stairs  and  ask  old 
Mrs.  Mahoney  to  come  up  and  stay 
with  the  children  till  I  get  back." 

She  ran  out  quickly  and  left  him  to 
look  around  the  room  he  was  leaving; 
the  unfinished  washing,  the  children 
still  at  the  table  eating  bread  and 
molasses.  She  had  never  been  known 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

to  leave  the  home  under  like  condi 
tions.  In  spite  of  her  poor  house 
keeping  he  knew  she  was  always  at 
it.  What  was  she  going  to  do?  Then 
a  sense  of  the  grim  humor  of  it  all 
seized  him.  He  remembered  that  the 
Aileen  Mullen  he  used  to  know  had 
kept  more  than  one  fellow  guessing. 
She  was  the  only  one  that  had  ever 
given  him  a  sense  of  uncertainty.  All 
the  others  he  had  been  so  sure  of. 
That  was  long  ago.  Seven  years  of 
married  life  had  taught  him  what  to 
expect.  Now  he  sat  down  and  waited, 
with  a  new  feeling  of  interest  in  the 
next  move  she  would  make. 

She  came  back  without  delay,  bring 
ing  a  gust  of  cold,  damp  air  with  her 
as  she  opened  the  door. 

[132] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


"Mrs.  Mahoney  '11  be  up  in  a  min 
ute.  I'll  get  my  things  on." 

She  flew  to  the  bedroom  and  pulled 
a  box  from  under  the  bed.  There 
lay  the  long,  black  cloak,  shabby  with 
the  wear  of  seven  years,  and  the  felt 
hat  trimmed  with  the  drooping  feather 
that  had  been  her  pride.  Once  she 
stopped  to  look  in  the  little  mirror 
that  hung  below  the  clasped  hands  of 
the  marriage  certificate.  Then,  in 
anticipation  of  the  cold  wind,  she 
pulled  her  hands  up  into  the  sleeves 
of  her  cloak,  a  movement  that  gave 
her  shoulders  a  squared  look,  as  if  she 
were  ready  for  whatever  might  come. 

"All  right,"  she  announced. 

Mrs.  Mahoney  came  in  with  a  little 
grunt  of  disgust.  "An'  whativer  has 

[133] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

come  to  ye  two,  to  be  sure,  takin'  a 
night  like  this  for  a  pleasure  thrip, 
whin  the  rain  fair  soaks  through  yer 
bones  an'  chills  the  marrow?"  She 
looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "Ye 
are  that  mysterious,"  she  muttered 
good-naturedly;  "but  ye'll  be  back 
before  tin?" 

"Mamma,"  wailed  the  baby,  tum 
bling  from  his  chair  as  he  caught  sight 
of  her  cloak  and  hat. 

She  picked  him  up  and  smiled. 
"Mamma's  coming  back.  She  won't 
leave  baby."  He  clutched  her  hair 
with  one  tiny  hand  and  pressed  his 
face  into  her  neck.  The  man  shifted 
uneasily  from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"If  you're  going,  come  on,"  he  said. 

"You'll    be    good    children."      She 

[134] 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


turned  at  the  door  and  smiled  at  them, 
and  together  they  went  out  into  the  rain. 

"  Other  folks  out,  too,"  she  observed. 

" Where's  everybody  going  to?"  he 
questioned. 

As  they  turned  the  corner,  the  sound 
of  gay  music  smote  their  ears.  In  one 
of  the  open  spaces  on  Ashland  avenue, 
backed  up  against  a  row  of  uniform 
cottages,  a  small  circus  tent  flaunted 
its  gorgeous  sign  by  the  light  of  a 
flaring  torch.  A  hoarse  ticket  seller 
stood  in  an  open  wagon,  shouting  the 
wonders  of  the  show  to  the  moving 
mass  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
jostling,  laughing,  pushing,  all  eager  to 
leave  their  quarters  in  his  outstretched 
hand.  Jim  Casey  felt  the  contagion 
of  the  crowd. 

[135] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"What  do  you  say  to  going  in?"  he 
asked,  feeling  in  his  pockets. 

"Just  as  you  like/'  she  answered; 
but  her  heart  gave  a  leap  as  he  turned 
and  drew  her  in  the  direction  of  the 
laughing  throng,  each  step  bearing 
them  farther  from  the  crossing. 

Inside  there  were  signs  that  the 
show  had  already  begun. 

"Just  look  at  that  clown,  Jim,  two 
of  'em,"  she  cried,  clutching  her  hus 
band's  arm.  "  Wouldn't  you  die  laugh 
ing  at  him?" 

"Look  at  the  horses  coming  on," 
he  responded.  "Say,  I'd  like  a  few. 
What  would  I  do  with  'em?  Well, 
say.  If  I'd  a  pair  of  beauties  like 
them  to  do  teaming  we'd  be  coming 
to  the  show  regular." 


The  Glory  of  the  Man 


"We  —  we  used  to  come,"  she 
gasped;  and  stopped,  frightened  at 
the  ghost  of  past  joys  her  words  con 
jured  up. 

Some  thought  of  long  ago  faintly 
stirred  in  the  heart  of  Jim  Casey;  and 
he  looked  at  his  wife,  still  clinging 
nervously  to  him,  lest  she  should  slip 
from  the  narrow  bench. 

"  Seems  as  if  we  did  use  to  get  out 
oftener,"  he  admitted,  looking  at  the 
newspaper  bundle  in  his  lap. 

"It's  — it's  the  baby's  teeth  that 
keep  me  in,"  she  said. 

"  That's  a  good  band,"  he  observed. 
"Makes  the  horses  step  lively." 

"They're  playing  the  song  I  like, 
Jim." 

"What's  that?" 

[137] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"  'Love  Me  and  the  World  is  Mine.'  " 

Together  they  listened,  clowns  and 
horses  for  the  moment  forgotten.  The 
music  rose  triumphant  in  that  popular 
refrain,  horns,  clarinets,  drums,  with 
a  final  clash  of  cymbals  united  in  a 
ringing  defiance  to  any  fate,  "Love 
Me  and  the  World  is  Mine." 

"Say,  Aileen,"  exclaimed  Jim,  "we 
ain't  going  to  hurry.  We're  going  to 
take  in  this  whole  blamed  thing  from 
start  to  finish,  side-shows  and  all." 

"  And — and  the  train?  "  she  faltered, 
not  daring  to  look  at  him. 

"Who's  talking?  I  ain't,"  he  an 
swered.  "Look!  look  up  there!  How 
did  those  fellows  get  onto  that  trapeze, 
and  we  not  see  'em?" 

[138] 


CASE    NUMBER   i  199 


[139] 


VIII 
CASE  NUMBER   i  199 

MARIAN  ISABEL  CURTIS 
finished  an  early  breakfast 
with  the  pleasing  conscious 
ness  that  this  was  to  be  one  of 
her  busy  days.  An  active,  college- 
trained  girl,  she  had  ceased  to  enjoy 
the  year  of  social  dissipation  and  idle 
ness  that  followed  her  graduation,  and 
it  was  with  a  keen  sense  of  renewed  life 
that  she  found  herself  actually  enrolled 
with  the  workers  of  the  world.  Not 
that  she  had  been  allowed  to  secure  any 
remunerative  employment.  There  was 

[141] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

a  family  tradition  that  made  it  impos 
sible  for  Marian  Isabel  Curtis  to  be 
counted  in  a  census  of  women  engaged 
in  gainful  occupations,  but  this  fact 
added  to  the  importance  of  her  position 
as  a  volunteer  friendly  visitor  for  one 
of  the  charitable  societies  of  the  city. 
To  visit  the  poor  and  needy,  to  guide 
the  erring,  to  be  a  part  of  this  great 
work  for  the  general  uplift  of  humanity 
—  these  thoughts  stirred  to  their  depths 
the  unused  powers  of  the  potential 
woman.  At  last  she  had  found  her 
place  in  the  world,  and  as  she  stood 
before  the  long  mirror  to  stick  another 
jeweled  pin  into  her  latest  hat,  she  was 
ready  for  any  self-renunciation,  even  to 
the  wearing  of  a  little  black  bonnet  with 
white  strings  tied  stiffly  under  her  chin. 

[142] 


Case  Number  1199 


She  walked  briskly  down  the  un 
familiar  street  that  led  to  The  Tene 
ment,  wondering  at  the  unsavory  odors 
that  seemed  to  fill  the  air  like  a  fog, 
and  halting  at  each  block  to  consult  her 
little  note-book  for  the  exact  location 
of  "Case  Number  1199." 

"Carelessness  at  the  office!  Every 
case  should  be  marked  'front'  or  'rear/ 
and  whether  upstairs  or  down,"  she 
said  aloud  after  Mrs.  Hoesing  had  sent 
her  to  the  back  door  to  be  interviewed 
by  Mrs.  Mahoney,  who  assumed  the 
role  of  investigator  before  giving  the 
desired  information. 

She  climbed  the  first  flight  of  stairs 
and  paused.  "Old  couple,  Scotch,  sick 
man,  no  children,  no  income,  send  man 
to  hospital,"  she  reflected,  recalling  the 

[143] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

abbreviated  facts  given  her  at  the  office 
of  the  society. 

"Come  in,"  she  heard  a  voice  call 
faintly  in  response  to  her  quick  knock 
at  the  door.  She  knocked  again. 

There  was  a  sound  of  some  one 
moving  slowly  and  heavily.  Then  the 
door  opened  and  a  woman  of  about 
sixty-five  years,  stout,  erect,  and  fair, 
stood  before  her. 

"ThisisMrs.  McBride?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  woman,  without 
moving  from  the  threshold. 

"I  am  Miss  Curtis.  I  have  just 
been  appointed  the  friendly  visitor  for 
this  district.  Of  course  I  may  come 
in?" 

Mrs.  McBride  hesitated  a  moment, 
but  stepped  back  into  the  room  and 

[1441 


THIS     IS    MR  S.    M  (-'BRIDE  f 


Case  Number  1199 


went  through  the  form  of  wiping  the 
dust  from  a  spotless  chair. 

It  was  a  pleasant  day  in  May,  but 
the  room  with  its  closed  windows 
seemed  hot  and  stifling.  Miss  Curtis 
rose  suddenly  and  pulled  at  the  nearest 
window. 

"  Don't,  don't/'  protested  Mrs. 
McBride.  "He  can't  stand  the  stench 
of  the  Yards  today." 

She  tiptoed  softly  across  the  room 
to  the  sagging  couch  where  Donald 
McBride  lay  sleeping  and  deftly 
covered  him  with  the  star-pattern 
patchwork  quilt.  The  sick  man  stirred. 
"I'll  come  back  to  you,  Jean.  I'll 
come  back." 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  replied  in  the  sooth 
ing  tones  one  uses  with  a  fretful  child. 

[145] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"I  know  you'll  come  back,  but  you 
better  not  be  talkin'." 

"He  keeps  sayin'  that,"  explained 
Mrs.  McBride,  returning  to  her  chair, 
"an'  talkin'  queer  in  his  sleep." 

"I  should  think  he  would  die  in  this 
close  room, ' '  said  Miss  Curtis.  ' '  Don't 
you  know  he  ought  to  be  in  a  hos 
pital?" 

"Sh—  sh"  —  Mrs.  McBride  raised 
a  warning  finger.  "We've  no  use  for 
a  hospital.  He  needs  me  to  take  care 
of  him,  an'  I'm  goin'  to  do  it." 

"But,  Mrs.  McBride,"  persisted  the 
friendly  visitor,  "you  know  a  hospital 
means  fresh  air  (it  is  bad  outside  today) 
and  good  food  and  a  nurse.  You  can't 
give  him  these  things.  You  under 
stand  we  heard  you  were  in  need  and  I 

[146] 


Case  Number  1199 


was  sent  to  see  what  plans  had  better 
be  made." 

"I  can't  make  any  plans  now,"  said 
the  old  woman  stiffly,  "not  so  long's 
my  husband  stays  sick." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  just  the  reason  for 
talking  things  over,"  continued  Miss 
Curtis.  Then  she  looked  at  her  watch. 
She  was  wasting  time.  "Really,  Mrs. 
McBride,  what  do  you  expect  to  do? 
I  was  given  this  case  at  the  office  with 
trie  information  that  your  husband  was 
ready  for  the  hospital  and  you  had  no 
means  of  support." 

"I  don't  know  who  give  it  to  you," 
said  Mrs.  McBride  indignantly. 

"You  mean  you  are  not  in  want 
and  there  is  no  reason  for  my  being 
here?" 

[147] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"I  see  no  reason.  The  neighbors 
are  willin'." 

"The  neighbors!"  exclaimed  Miss 
Curtis.  "You  don't  mean  you're  de 
pendent  on  the  neighbors!" 

Mrs.  McBride  drew  herself  up  an 
other  half -inch.  "We're  always  good 
to  each  other  in  times  of  trouble." 

"But  what  on  earth  can  the  neigh 
bors  do?  They're  all  -  -  that  is,  of 
course  they  must  have  their  own 
families  to  look  after." 

The  old  woman  was  silent. 

"Of  course  the  neighbors  would  be 
kind  in  the  beginning,"  continued  Miss 
Curtis,  "but  tell  me,  honestly,  Mrs. 
McBride,  have  you  any  one  to  de 
pend  on  now  that  your  husband  is 
sick?" 

[148] 


Case  Number  1199 


Confronted  with  the  direct  question, 
Jean  McBride  dared  not  tell  a  lie. 

"No,"  she  replied,  defiantly. 

"Have  you  anything  laid  by  for  a 
rainy  day?" 

"Nothing." 

"Is  there  anything  coming  in  except 
what  the  neighbors  choose  to  give?" 

"Not  a  thing." 

The  friendly  visitor  was  mystified. 
Perhaps  the  old  woman  was  a  fraud. 
She  must  have  something  somewhere 
or  she  could  not  refuse  aid  in  the 
face  of  sickness  and  poverty.  Of  the 
unrecorded  charity  that  lives  among 
the  poor,  Marian  Isabel  Curtis  knew 
nothing. 

"Of  course  it  is  always  possible  to 
cut  down  expenses,"  she  suggested  with 

[149] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

a  glance  towards  a  closed  door.    "  Since 
there  are  only  two  of  you  perhaps  fewer 


rooms — " 


"I've  lived  in  this  town  twenty 
years,"  interrupted  Mrs.  McBride, 
with  dignity,  "an'  I've  always  had  a 
front  room." 

She  rose  and  opened  the  door.  The 
quick  rush  of  cold  air  made  her  sneeze 
violently.  Miss  Curtis  saw  in  quick 
succession  the  large  figures  in  the  red 
ingrain  carpet,  the  fireless  stove  in  the 
center  of  the  room,  the  stiff  chairs  with 
their  crocheted  tidies,  the  picture  of 
Robert  Burns  hung  above  an  old  plush 
sofa,  and  the  wax  flowers  under  the 
glass  case  on  the  little  table.  She 
knew  little  of  the  standards  of  the 
neighborhood  nor  of  the  depths  of 

[150] 


Case  Number  1199 


poverty  to  which  one  must  sink  be 
fore  resigning  the  luxury  of  a  front 
room. 

"We  all  have  to  give  up  things  at 
times,"  said  Miss  Curtis.  "I  know  it's 
hard.  I've  done  it  myself." 

"What  was  it  you  give  up?"  asked 
the  old  woman  grimly;  "a  trip  to 
Europe  or  an  autymobile?" 

"  Oh,  it  was  something  greater  than 
either  of  those,"  replied  Miss  Curtis, 
trying  to  laugh;  "but  now  do  be  rea 
sonable.  How  are  you  going  to 
live?  You  surely  cannot  expect — " 

"We're  expectin'  nothing!"  said 
Mrs.  McBride  firmly. 

Miss  Curtis  rose  to  go.  "I  must  see 
another  case.  I'll  come  tomorrow. 
You  think  about  having  your  husband 

[151] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

go  to  the  hospital.  I  know  you'll 
decide  I'm  right.  Good-by." 

She  walked  quickly  down  the  stairs, 
past  the  watchful  eye  of  Mrs.  Mahoney 
and  the  silent  curiosity  of  Mrs.  Hoesing, 
out  into  the  noisy  street  with  its  multi 
tude  of  children  and  sickening  odors. 

"I  certainly  must  think  this  out," 
she  said  to  herself.  "That  old  woman 
has  got  to  be  managed." 

The  following  day  found  Marian 
Curtis  alive  with  a  new  resolution. 
She  had  thought  it  out  to  the  end. 
She  had  had  a  preconceived  notion 
that  poverty  and  a  certain  kind  of 
docility  must  go  hand  in  hand.  She 
had  not  been  prepared  to  meet  re 
sistance,  pride,  and  an  absurd  clinging 
to  an  independence  that  no  longer 

[152] 


Case  Number  1199 


existed.  There  was  but  one  thing  to 
be  done.  Her  dealings  with  this  sin 
gular  character  must  be  marked  by 
firmness  and  prompt  action.  People 
who  would  not  be  reasonable  must  be 
made  to  be  reasonable.  She  walked 
nervously  to  the  rear  of  The  Tenement, 
wondering  how  she  should  broach  the 
plan  for  whose  execution  she  was  al 
ready  prepared.  A  vision  of  Mrs. 
McBride,  stout  and  stubborn,  rose  up 
in  her  mind,  and  she  reached  the  door 
with  a  sudden  fear  that  the  old  woman 
might  prove  unmanageable. 

"Mrs.  McBride,"  she  began  at  once, 
"I  really  can't  waste  time  today. 
You  don't  know  how  much  better  off 
your  husband  would  be  in  a  hos 
pital." 


[153] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head  and 
placed  a  finger  cautiously  on  her  lips. 
The  old  man  was  still  dozing  on  the 
sagging  couch  as  if  he  had  not  left  it 
since  the  day  before. 

"He's  wantin'  nothing"  she  said. 

Today  one  window  was  open  to 
catch  a  cool  breeze  from  the  West. 
A  confusion  of  unexpected  sounds  rose 
from  the  street  —  the  roll  of  wheels 
mingled  with  the  shrill  voices  of  chil 
dren  and  the  babble  of  women's  tongues 
in  many  languages. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Mrs.  Mc- 
Bride,  taking  a  step  towards  the  win 
dow. 

Marian  Curtis  blushed  as  she  in 
tercepted  the  old  woman  and  opened 
the  door  to  admit  two  young  men 

[154] 


dressed  in  white  and  bearing  a  hospital 
stretcher. 

"This  is  the  flat,"  she  said  in  answer 
to  their  inquiring  look. 

"Tell  'em  they've  got  the  wrong 
place/'  said  Mrs.  McBride.  "But  I 
wonder  now  who's  sick  in  the  block 
Then  she  looked  from  one  to  the 
other  and  turned  pale.  "What  right 
have  you?"  she  asked  sternly. 

Miss  Curtis  felt  the  clash  of  wills 
and  trembled  for  an  instant. 

"Your  husband  is  going  to  the 
hospital,  Mrs.  McBride."  She  spoke 
with  an  impressive  deliberation  and 
pressed  the  old  woman  back  into  her 
chair. 

"No,  he  ain't.  He  can't.  He  don't 
want  to.  He's  too  sick  to  know. 

[155] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

What  right  have  you?"  Mrs. 

McBride  rose  with  unwonted  swiftness 
and  pushed  past  her  friendly  visitor 
to  the  hospital  attendants. 

"He's  my  husband.  I've  always 
took  care  of  him.  They'll  never  know 
in  a  hospital  what  he's  wan  tin'.  They'll 
never  know.  They'll  never  know," 
she  reiterated  piteously. 

The  young  men  paused  and  looked  to 
ward  Miss  Curtis  who  stood  unrelent 
ing  with  her  hand  still  on  the  door-knob. 

"Oh,  it  will  be  all  right;  come  now," 
said  the  younger  man  soothingly. 

They  were  not  unaccustomed  to 
scenes  like  this,  to  the  fears,  protests, 
and  ravings  of  impotent  poverty. 

The  old  woman  bent  over  her  hus 
band.  "Donald?"  "Donald?" 

[156] 


Case  Number   1199 


"  There's  trouble  brewin',  Jean,  but 
I'll  come  back.  I'll  come  back." 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment  for 
skilful  hands.  "You  can  always  see 
him  twice  a  week — Wednesdays  and 
Saturdays"  -called  back  one  of  the 
young  men  kindly,  as  they  passed  out 
of  the  door,  which  closed  behind  them 
with  a  decisive  movement. 

Miss  Curtis  drew  a  long  breath  as  she 
listened  to  the  distant  sound  of  the 
ambulance  bell  and  the  gradual  cessa 
tion  of  the  murmurs  in  the  street  below. 

"Poor  old  thing,  but  it  had  to  be 
done,"  she  said  to  herself,  looking  a 
little  anxiously  at  Mrs.  McBride,  who 
had  dropped  back  into  her  chair,  over 
whelmed  by  the  unexpectedness  of  the 
attack  and  the  cool  front  of  her  enemies. 

[1571 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

"Now  cheer  up,  Mrs.  McBride. 
Remember  you  want  the  best  thing  for 
your  husband,  and  he's  got  it.  I'll 
come  to  see  you  again  about  your 
plans  - 

"My  plans!  My  plans!"  cried  the 
old  woman,  getting  on  to  her  trembling 
legs.  "Do  you  think  I've  any  plans 
apart  from  him?  Sit  down  there." 
She  pointed  imperiously  to  her  own 
chair  and  took  her  stand  by  the  closed 
door  with  one  shaking  hand  on  the 
knob.  "Now  you  are  set  tin'  in  my 
place  an'  I'm  standin'  in  yours.  It's 
my  turn,  an'  you've  got  to  take  it. 
We're  poor,  an'  that  give  you  a  chance 
to  meddle.  Do  you  know  why  we've 
got  nothin',  an'  old  age  comin'  on? 
All  we'd  saved  was  in  the  bank  that 

[1581 


Case  Number   1199 


broke.  I  can't  rightly  tell  who's  got 
the  money,  but  them  that  took  it  on 
trust  don't  seem  to  lose  nothin'.  Do 
you  know  why  my  little  girl  died?  It 
was  the  bad  milk  I  paid  for  that  give 
her  the  fever.  Do  you  know  why  we 
lost  our  boy,  that  would  have  been 
strong  to  help  us  now?  The  doctor 
said  'twas  the  plumbin'  out  of  order 
that  the  landlord  wouldn't  fix,  no 
matter  how  we  begged  him,  and  him 
with  a  full  pocket." 

"You  will  make  yourself  sick,"  in 
terrupted  Miss  Curtis.  "It  does  no 
good  to  talk  of  these  things  now." 

"No,  it  does  no  good,"  the  old 
woman  cried,  "an'  it  does  no  good  for 
the  likes  of  you  to  come  here.  You 
belong  to  the  folks  what  does  the 

[159] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

wrong.  You  take  the  loaf  that  is 
ours  today,  an'  tomorrow  you  come 
back  with  a  crumb  for  charity.  Do 
you  think  to  patch  it  up  that  way?" 

She  moved  painfully  over  to  the 
empty  couch  and  dropped  on  her  knees 
beside  it,  closing  both  arms  around  the 
pillow  still  moist  from  the  warmth  of 
the  head  that  had  pressed  it. 

"He's  gone,"  she  moaned,  "he's 
gone.  All  I'd  left  in  the  world,  an' 
they'll  be  givin'  him  the  '  Black 
Bottle.'" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Miss 
Curtis  irritably.  "Do  try  to  be  reason 
able.  They  will  give  him  the  care  he 
needs." 

"No,  no,"  sobbed  the  old  woman, 
"it's  folks  like  us  who  knows.  I  mean 

[160] 


Case  Number   1199 


the  '  Black  Bottle '  they  always  keep  at 
a  hospital  for  them  that's  poor  and 
can't  get  well.  There's  death  in  it!" 

Miss  Curtis  looked  at  the  pathetic 
figure  on  the  floor.  "It  is  all  nonsense, 
I  tell  you,"  she  said  patiently.  "I 
never  heard  of  anything  so  absurd. 
They  don't  kill  people  at  hospitals. 
They  make  them  well.  Now  just 
cheer  up.  I  must  be  going.  We 
needn't  talk  any  more  today,  but  I'll 
be  in  tomorrow." 

"No,"  replied  Mrs.  McBride  wearily, 
"there's  no  need  for  more  talk,  an' 
you  needn't  come  again.  I'm  thinkin' 
I  can  make  my  own  plans." 

The  friendly  visitor  left  the  house 
with  a  curious  sense  of  defeat.  Not 
knowing  what  else  to  do,  she  allowed 


161] 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

three  days  to  pass  before  considering 
the  next  step  in  the  development  of 
her  "case."  The  old  man  was  safe  at 
the  hospital  and  she  contented  herself 
by  deciding  that  while  the  old  woman 
was  becoming  used  to  the  separation 
from  her  husband,  the  generosity  of  the 
neighbors,  of  which  she  had  had  a 
glimpse,  would  relieve  present  material 
needs.  Tuesday  morning,  her  natural 
love  of  carrying  any  undertaking  to  a 
successful  close  grew  strong  within  her, 
and  she  felt  that  the  end  of  the  week 
must  see  Mrs.  McBride  subdued  to  the 
point  of  considering  any  proposition 
entertained  for  her  welfare.  Before 
starting  out  she  ^stepped  to  the  tele 
phone,  thinking  to  gain  from  the 
hospital  some  news  of  the  sick  man's 

[162] 


Case  Number   1199 


comfortable  condition  that  would  prove 
how  right  she  had  been  in  this  matter. 
The  first  words  brought  a  flush  of 
surprise  to  her  face. 

"What!  you  don't  mean  he's  gone 
home?'" 

"Yes.     He  went  Sunday  afternoon." 

"  I  do  not  understand  it.  Who  came 
after  him?  This  is  Miss  Curtis.  I 
made  arrangements  to  have  you  keep 
him.  I  do  not  see  what  right  you  had 
to  let  him  go." 

"We  had  no  right  to  keep  him.  A 
big,  convincing  chap  named  Casey 
came  after  him.  He  said  the  old  man 
was  his  father  and  he  could  take  care 
of  him  as  long  as  he  lived.  The  man 
can't  last  more  than  a  month,  and  we 
never  hold  such  cases  when  there  is 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

the  smallest  chance  of  comfort  at 
home." 

"But  there  isn't  the  smallest  chance. 
It's  a  plain  case  of  direst  poverty. 
Somebody  has  to  support  them.  More 
over,  they  haven't  any  son." 

There  was  a  touch  of  impatience  in 
the  next  reply  suggesting  that  the  con 
versation  might  be  brought  to  an 
abrupt  close. 

"The  young  fellow,  Casey,  took  pains 
to  show  me  ten  dollars  raised  by  the 
neighbors  in  twenty-five  cent  subscrip 
tions.  He  may  or  may  not  be  a  son. 
It  doesn't  matter.  The  old  man  won't 
live  long  enough  to  need  ten  dollars' 
worth  of  anything,  and  he  wanted  to 
die  at  home." 

Miss  Curtis  sat  down  irresolutely  on 

[164] 


Case  Number   1199 


the  nearest  chair.  Then  she  drew  out 
her  hatpins  and  flung  the  bit  of  finery 
on  the  table.  The  toe  of  one  little  shoe 
tapped  the  floor  nervously. 

"  Tricked,  Marian  Curtis.  Out 
witted  in  your  own  game!" 

The  absurdity  of  the  situation  im 
pressed  her  and  she  laughed  softly  to 
herself.  Then  she  readjusted  her  hat 
and  started  out  once  more  in  the  out 
ward  capacity  of  a  friendly  visitor. 
She  knew  she  was  beaten,  yet  a  curios 
ity  mingled  with  a  secret  admiration  for 
the  obstinacy  of  the  old  woman  and  the 
cleverness  of  her  neighbors  overcame 
her  chagrin  and  made  it  necessary  to 
her  to  get  another  glimpse  of  the  doings 
of  these  strange  people.  It  seemed  a 
curious  world  apart  from  her  own. 

[1651 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

Perhaps  she  did  not  wholly  under 
stand  it! 

She  reached  the  rear  of  The  Tene 
ment  and  encountered  Mrs.  Mahoney 
sitting  in  the  leisurely  attitude  common 
to  the  unemployed  of  the  back  door 
step. 

Miss  Curtis  felt  instinctively  the 
need  of  being  on  friendly  terms  with 
the  Irishwoman. 

"Good  afternoon,"  she  said  cheer 
fully. 

"Good  afternoon,  ma'am." 

"I  learned  from  the  hospital  that 
Mr.  McBride  was  brought  home  by  one 
of  the  neighbors,"  said  Miss  Curtis, 
sitting  down  upon  the  lower  step. 

"Sure,  he's  at  home,"  assented  Mrs. 
Mahoney,  udyin'  comfortable  an'  takin' 

[166] 


Case  Number   1199 


his  time  to  it  with  his  wife  beside  him  as 
she  shud  be." 

"Who  went  after  him?" 

"Jim  Casey." 

"Who  is  Jim  Casey?" 

"Jim?  Oh,  he  lives  in  The  Tene 
ment,  third  up,  in  the  back." 

"But  he  said  Mr.  McBride  was  his 
father." 

Mrs.  Mahoney's  wrinkled  face 
lighted  up  and  her  eyes  sparkled.  "  Did 
he  now?  Sure,  an'  that  was  good  iv 
him." 

"But  it  wasn't  the  truth,"  said  Miss 
Curtis,  seriously.  "You  know  it 
wasn't  the  truth,  and  if  he  hadn't  said 
that  they  wouldn't  have  let  him  go  at 
the  hospital." 

"I'm    thinkin'    the    boy    was    near 

[1671 


Mrs.  Mahoney  of  The  Tenement 

right,"  said  Mrs.  Mahoney,  calmly. 
"'Twas  on  a  Sunday  Jim  brought  the 
old  man  home.  Don't  ye  always  hear 
on  that  day  how  we're  all  mimbers  iv 
wan  great  family?  Sure,  an'  what  was 
to  hinder  Jim  in  bein'  anny  relation 
that  took  his  fancy?" 

Miss  Curtis  looked  for  a  moment  at 
the  bent  old  figure  with  the  clear  blue 
eyes  and  the  yellow-white  hair,  and  felt 
that  it  was  no  time  for  pure  logic. 

"Well,  if  it's  all  in  the  family,"  she 
laughed,  "tell  me  what  relation  do  I 
hold  to  the  old  man?" 

"  Faith,  an'  ye  haven't  found  out," 
replied  Mrs.  Mahoney,  good-naturedly. 


168 


DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


